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The Reunion

Jim Farren

    Reunion (noun) – 1) An act of reuniting; the state of being reunited. 2) A reuniting of persons after a separation.
—— # —— # ——

    So why—you may wonder—am I standing in one corner of a Greyhound bus station with my ex-wife’s severed head in a canvas tote bag at my feet?
    I am standing because there’s no place to sit. The station is an obvious afterthought; small, tacked onto the side of a laundromat, barely large enough for two battered vending machines, a timeworn counter, and a pair of plastic benches—all lit by harsh florescent overheads and a soft, blue-neon Bus sign in the window. One bench is taken up by a sleeping derelict in a filthy trench coat over sweat pants and sockless shoes, clutching a ticket to somewhere in one grimy hand. His snoring form is being studiously ignored by a heavy-set Hispanic woman and three pre-school aged children who occupy the other bench. She is either knitting or crocheting, I’ve never been able to tell the difference, and the children are busy with coloring books and candy bars.
    We are on the poor side of a poor town, its main street offering as many abandoned and boarded-up buildings as actual businesses. Across the narrow street is a rundown tavern with its own neon sign, this one red and spelling out Cold Beer.
—— # —— # ——

    Lexi had called me on my burner phone. She had the number, but no location. As soon as I answered, she said, “I think they’ve found me.”
    “They who?”
    “You know who. I’m scared to death.”
    “What makes you think they’ve found you?”
    “A guy’s been following me, two guys actually.”
    “What does Nichols say?”
    “Nichols is gone.”
    “Gone as in out for milk, on a fishing trip, what?”
    “Gone as in gone, Riley. As in no longer here.”
    “What about the money?”
    “He took most of it with him. Left me a little to tide me over—his words.”
    “Nice guy, huh?”
    “Nichols was a mistake, I know that now.”
    “Too bad you didn’t see that before you divorced me.”
    “That was a mistake, too. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
    “Water under the bridge. Why call me?”
    “I told you, I’m scared. I think they’ve found me and I don’t know what to do.”
    “Where are you?”
    She told me. I google-mapped it, a small town outside of a much larger city. I did some calculations. I wasn’t thrilled, but she was my ex and we had a history. I didn’t owe her a thing. Still...
    “If I drive straight thru I can be there late afternoon tomorrow. Pack a suitcase. Stay inside. Don’t answer the door, not for anyone—not the landlord, not the mailman, not a delivery guy, not even the paperboy. Clear?”
    “Uh huh. Jesus, you’re giving me the willies. I’m afraid they’ll kill me. You’ll take care of me, right?”
    “No, but I will come get you so you can settle somewhere else. Think about where that will be. Oh, and Lexi...?
    “Yes?”
    “This is the last time.”
—— # —— # ——

    I live on the outskirts of a city larger than hers. I packed a few things in an overnight bag and took a cab to the airport. I wandered around the long-term parking lot until I found a nondescript sedan with the parking stub on the dashboard. A slim-jim opened the door and my car-boosting-day’s expertise hot-wired the engine. It’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget how.
    I drove the speed limit, stopping only for gas and fast food. I reached Lexi’s house the next day just before sunset. It was a small frame bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac in a sub-division of tract homes. I parked under a leafy oak tree down the street and watched the place for half an hour. Traffic was light and I didn’t spot a spotter. If there was other surveillance, it was too good for me to see. I drove around the block and parked the next street over, then walked back, stepped onto the concrete-slab porch, and rang the bell—no answer. I knocked—again, no answer. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Inside, I stood in a small living room and listened—not a sound. I called Lexi’s name softly—no reply. I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the back. The place felt deserted and smelled faintly of hot copper.
    I found her decapitated body in the bathtub. I knew it was her because of the tiny birthmark under her left breast. Blood had congealed around the drain. Her torso was bruised and battered where someone had beaten her before cutting off her head. Seeing her incomplete from the neck up was eerie, almost surreal. Sometimes they take the head as a trophy, sometimes as a warning, sometimes just for the fun of it.
    I searched the bedroom, but found nothing other than some of Nichols’ left-behinds in the closet and a couple of thousand bucks in a nightstand drawer. An open suitcase was on the bed, half full of neatly folded clothes. Nothing of interest in the living room either. That left only the kitchen.
    Lexi’s head was in the refrigerator, sitting there wide-eyed next to some Romaine lettuce and a couple of green Bell peppers. She had a surprised look on her face and that silly, lop-sided smile I had once thought so charming. I looked at her and sighed. She deserved better, but then don’t we all? I remembered seeing a canvas tote bag in the bedroom closet. I fetched it and a towel to wrap her head with. I didn’t know then why I took her with me. Some sort of closure maybe, or just not wanting her to be alone, not wanting some stranger to find her like that.
    Regardless of the why, I did take her. I sat in the stolen car with her on the passenger seat while I decided what to do next. I couldn’t risk driving, couldn’t afford to be in a fender-bender or stopped by some cop. The nearest rail and airline services were in the city, but I hated trains and there was no way I’d get a severed head thru TSA at the airport. Then I remembered the bus station I’d passed on my way into town. Thus, I ditched the car and found myself standing in the Greyhound waiting room with a derelict on one bench, an Hispanic family on the other, Lexi’s head at my feet, and a ticket to New Orleans in my hand. Somewhere along the way I had decided not to go home yet. Instead, I was going to find Nichols.
—— # —— # ——

    The backstory is simple. Nichols and I knocked off a drug house in Houston. It was a Saturday night and they were counting and banding the week’s take. The kitchen table was piled high with cash; three guys counting it and a couple more guarding the place. Surprise was on our side and it went off without a hitch. Shotguns kept the five of them in line and duct tape kept them from following us.
    We crashed at a Marriott hotel where we divvied the money and planned to split up the next morning. We ordered room service and a bottle of scotch to celebrate. They must have spiked my drink because I woke up midday Sunday with a headache and a cotton mouth. Nichols and Lexi were gone along with all the cash. There was a post-it note on the bathroom mirror, ‘Sorry about the money, ol’ buddy. I never was good at sharing.’
    I flew home wiser for the experience. Six months later I heard thru the grapevine that Lexi had divorced me, that she and Nichols were somewhere back east. The word on the street said the drug guys were looking hard for whoever ripped them off. That didn’t worry me much. They didn’t know who I was and, even if they did, they had no idea where I was or that I had a new identity. I assumed the same was true for Nichols, but it turned out his face must have rung a bell for somebody, or maybe he talked too much, or maybe Lexi did. Regardless, it seemed the drug guys had tracked them down. What I didn’t know was whether Nichols leaving Lexi was by luck or design. Maybe he just got tired of her and took off. On the other hand, maybe he felt the hunters getting close and left her on her own. What I did know was he had my share of the money and I had Lexi’s head in a tote bag.
    Losing the money hadn’t bothered me much. I had money and the Houston heist would only have added to the stash. I was pissed at Nichols, but not enough to go looking for him. Lexi had gone with him voluntarily and I told myself I wanted nothing more to do with her. I took on a new identity, moved to a new town, and chalked it all up to life sometimes being a bitch. Now though, with Lexi dead, I wanted something else, something was eating away at me—even if I wasn’t sure what it was.
—— # —— # ——

    No matter how large or small, all towns have an underbelly, a seamy side, and New Orleans’ was seamier than most. Think of it as a two-layer cake. The top layer is where the civilians live—the regular folks, folks like you; people who work their jobs, pay their bills, take the kids to church and the dogs for walks. They live in modest houses or apartments. They cut their lawns and wash their cars, barbecue with the family and pay their taxes. Their occasional contact with the seamy side is the rare occasion when they get mugged or burgled or carjacked, beat down or held up, ripped off or accosted on the street. They are vulnerable, and invariably surprised when faced with proof that not everyone is law abiding and relatively honest.
    The second layer is the underbelly, where the criminal element lives; grifters and burglars, dopers and loan sharks, fences and hold-up artists and strong-arm guys who will whack you for a price or sometimes just for the helluv it. They live in bars and strip clubs, pawn shops and alleys, single-wide trailers, rooms-for-rent and hot-sheet hotels. They run scams and cons, prey on the civilians, and would rather rip you off than take a regular job.
—— # —— # ——

    Fat Mike wasn’t fat and his name wasn’t Mike. Go figure. However, the neon sign outside the seedy strip joint two blocks off of Bourbon Street flashed Fat Mike’s Pink Pussycat for all to see. The last three letters of the sign were burnt out so that it obscenely advertised what was on display inside. In my experience, all pussy is pink; white girls being the color of carnations, brown ones a darker, rose color, and black ones the same red as a slice of ripe watermelon. I’ve never seen an Asian stripper so I can’t attest to their inner shading. All I know about them is that contrary to adolescent belief their pussies are not on a slant.
    It was 3:00pm on a Wednesday. There were only four customers at the stage rail where a bored brunette with silicone tits and a flaccid ass did her bump and grind. Each time she squatted and spread her knees one of the men stuffed a bill into the garter high on her right thigh.
    Fat Mike and I were at a cocktail table near the bar. We had tumblers of scotch, his neat and mine over ice. It was good scotch from his private bottle. We both sipped and looked at each other blandly. Finally, he said, “What can I do for you, Riley?”
    “I’m looking for Nichols.”
    “Nichols? Now there’s a blast out of the past. What makes you think I know where he is?”
    “Don’t insult me,” I said. “Tell me to fuck off if you want. Tell me I can’t afford to pay the freight. Tell me anything, but don’t insult me. If you don’t know where he is you know who does.”
    He drained half his scotch, said “I might know a guy,” and waved to the scantily-clad waitress. “Tell Diamond to get her ass over here,” he said flatly. “Tell her I got needs that need attending.” Then back to me, “Something I always wondered about you. Is Riley your first or last name?”
    I shrugged and answered, “Both.”
    “No shit? Your fucking name is Riley Riley? Talk about weird.”
    “Not Riley Riley,” I said wearily. Just Riley. Now, about Nichols?”
    “Just a minute,” he said as a chunky blonde with double-D tits and good legs made her way to the table and wordlessly dropped to her knees the better to crawl underneath. I heard a zipper unzip, then the slobbery sound of some serious slurping. Fat Mike’s eyes narrowed and he slouched in his chair. I looked at the brunette on the stage and guessed her age at somewhere around thirty. A couple of minutes later Fat Mike’s hands disappeared under the table and I knew he was holding the blonde’s head. He stiffened, grunted, closed his eyes, and let out a pent-up breath. A few second later I heard a zipper zip and the blonde reappeared. She swiped dirt off her knees and licked the corner of her mouth. Fat Mike asked me, “You want some? She sucks like a Dust Buster.”
    I shook my head and waited for Diamond to walk away before repeating, “About Nichols?”
    “It’ll cost you, Riley.”
    “Money is not an issue.”
    “That’s what I like to hear. I’ll give you the name of a guy who knows a guy who knows.”
—— # —— # ——

    I had rented a room in a rundown hotel that catered to Lake Pontchartrain barge workers and retired railroaders. I checked the small refrigerator to ensure Lexi’s head was still inside. I drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup and ate an oyster po’boy while I cleaned and oiled my .22 revolver. I know what you’re thinking, a .22 is a sissy gun, the pussy of firearms. But it’s relatively quiet and still gets the job done if you know how to use it.
    Fat Mike’s guy who knew a guy did indeed know a guy who knew. For the money I shelled out I could have sprung for a nice vacation. Instead, I bought a second-hand car and started driving west.
—— # —— # ——

    I’d been to Padre Island before, but not recently. It’s the world’s largest barrier island, the north end sparsely populated and the central part a National Seashore preserve. Once known as the Redneck Riviera, South Padre had become an upscale resort town now that the Texas oil business was booming again.
    I had Nichols’ alias and the name of his hotel. I cornered the concierge and fed him a line about wanting to surprise an old war buddy. He pretended to believe it, selling me a room number and a passkey, making me promised to return the key after the surprise party. He pocketed the cash with a conspiratorial grin and a two-fingered salute, saying he hoped I enjoyed the reunion.
    The room was spacious, with a railed balcony and a view of the beach. There was an empty suitcase in one corner and clothes in the closet. I found car keys on the nightstand and a decent brand of scotch in the mini-bar, pocketed the first and poured the second into a glass tumbler. I arranged two chairs across from one another before settling into the one facing the door. I placed the canvas tote bag between my feet and closed my eyes. Waiting is an acquired skill and I do it well.
—— # —— # ——

    Nichols came in wearing sunglasses, swim trunks, and flip-flops; a hotel towel around his neck and a cold beer in his hand. He was tall, taller than me, and wider thru the chest. His curly black hair was damp and he froze when he saw me. Although his expression didn’t change I knew that behind the sunglasses his eyes were darting around the room.
    “You’re the last guy I expected to see,” he said causally.
    “I came for my money,” I said flatly.
    ‘Well, that’s too bad. I’ve already spent your money. Now I’m spending mine.”
    “Then I’ll take it.”
    “I like to live large. There isn’t much left.”
    “I’ll take what there is.”
    “Jesus, you’re a pushy bastard. What makes you think I’ll give it up?”
    I waggled the end of my revolver for effect then said, “Don’t be stupid. Unless you’ve changed habits it’s in the trunk of your car under the spare.”
    He settled into the chair across from me and removed his sunglasses. His eyes narrowed slightly when he glanced at the nightstand and saw his keys missing. He shrugged as if bored.
    “You know you won’t shoot me.”
    “Not once upon a time maybe.”
    “But you will now? Bullshit. Why?”
    “You abandoned Lexi.”
    “Abandoned her? You make it sound like I left her lost in the woods. Look, Riley. I felt those drug guys closing in so I took off.”
    “And left her holding the bag?
    “Hey, she’s a smart girl and very convincing. She can’t give me up because she doesn’t know where I am or how to locate me.”
    “They didn’t believe her.”
    “Who didn’t believe her?”
    “The drug guys. They found her.”
    “So what? She’s good at talking her way out of shit.”
    “Not good enough . . . and stop using the present tense.”
    “Huh?”
    I looked at him for a long moment. “I brought you a gift,” I said, nudging the tote bag with the toe of my boot.
    “Oh yeah?” he asked. “What is it?”
    I loosened the drawstring and pulled out Lexi’s head, holding it up for him to see. His face turned a ghastly shade of green and he bent over enough to not puke on himself. I didn’t know what he’d had for lunch, but there was a lot of it.
    “Jesus,” he hacked, wiping vomit from his lips. “Did they do that to her?”
    “No,” I said. “You did it to her. They were just the instrument.”
    “Jesus, man, that’s brutal.”
    “It’ll be something for you to think about in Hell.”
    “What the fuck does that mean?”
    I shot him twice in the forehead—*Pop!*Pop!*—the sound of the .22 no louder than the clapping of hands.
—— # —— # ——

    I placed Lexi’s head face-up on Nichols’ lap, their sightless eyes open and staring. She had been my wife and a good one most of the time. Forget that she had left me, run off with Nichols and my money. They say love will not be denied, nor sometimes even explained. It’s also said that in every man’s life he has only one true love. Lexi had been mine.
    I wasn’t big on the afterlife and didn’t know where Lexi was. Wherever it was I hoped the sun always shined, the humidity was low, dogs never bit you, and the crawfish etouffee was spicy. Looking at Nichols should have made me feel better somehow, but I didn’t. All I felt was a hollowness inside, a wistful longing, a sad realization that nothing would ever be the same again.
    I wiped the room for prints and left the two of them there. Downstairs in the lobby I stood by the elevators and took a deep breath, rearranged my face, put on the sunglasses I’d taken from Nichols cold, dead hand. Then I went looking for his car in the parking lot. On my way out I handed the concierge his passkey. He flashed me another friendly grin and asked how the reunion had been.
    “About like you’d expect,” I told him. “He was real surprised to see me.”



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