This is something I wrote about three years ago. I'll rehash a few old pieces before I get into anything new. I hope you enjoy.
I shot up terrified in a cold sweat. I could hear the quickly fading echo of a shout reverberate within the cars chassis. Had my own screams woke me? In any case I was awake and hung over with a pounding headache -- the most likely culprit of my night terrors. Midday terrors rather, I checked my cell; it was almost three in the afternoon.
Where in hell had that rat fink bastard Charlie gone off to? It was, after all, his car I woke up in.
Charlie was a strange character, a gangster of sorts in the sense that he was a Guinea, owned a gun, and sold drugs. He was an outgoing guy who always spoke his mind and did what he wanted.
“Get your hands off my girlfriend!” he would command the male counterpart of any reasonably attractive woman.
With enough drink in him he was likely to announce to an entire crowd – loud and clear, without a hint of shame - the quality of a woman’s rear or bosom. Needless to say he was abrasive and tended to piss people off, myself included; but overall he was the nicest asshole I ever meet.
Whimsical as Charlie may be he was also a possessive brat, so it struck me odd to find myself alone in the driver seat of his Galant, keys in the ignition, parked in a playground miles off from either of our apartments. Had I stolen his car? I couldn’t put it past myself; I drove a second hand pile of junk so tearing up the freeway in Charlie’s lovingly cared for Mitsubishi had been a long running fantasy of mine.
I dialed Charlie’s cell - no answer. Honestly I don’t know why he owns the damn thing, he never picks up.
“TSSSHHHH” I inhaled through my teeth and pinched the bridge of my nose as one with a severe brain freeze might. My brain was frozen alright; I couldn’t remember much, if any of last night’s festivities. I had to think - had to find Charlie. It was Saturday and we were due to attend his sister’s birthday party in less than three hours. He must have taken the train home, I should meet him there. I started up the car and peeled out into the road with a screech.
My mind seemed to open up with the throttle. I always did my best thinking behind the wheel.
Any recollection I had of the night transpired came as a fish-eyed haze and only in brief snippets - flash bulb memories, like someone cut chunks out of the film of my mind’s eye and scratched the shit out of the rest with their car keys. I remember sitting in Lennie’s Pub well enough, but I’m certain we left after two or three pitchers of the Wailing Wench. Where did we go next?
“Come on Jack.” My conscience played back in response, “I’ve got to go pick something up.”
Charlie drove us a good while before reaching an ill maintained dirt road that winded its way to a derelict country house. Sobriety had been creeping up on me slowly during our drive so I can recall the mad house, as it where, with reasonable clarity. It was a dilapidated two-storied plantation style home spotted with chips of white paint that curled away from the façade on which the scarcely clung. The roof of the sprawling ramshackle portico was supported at a precarious angle by three pillars and an aching make-shift two by four pillar which withstood the roofs corner with reluctance. The house was inundated with wildly incontinent drunks that whooped and hollered unabatedly. Blaring music pervaded the air for miles; so loud you couldn’t have heard a howitzer fire.
I can’t tell with any certainty where the house was located save for the middle of nowhere.
I followed Charlie up to the house. We had barely begun to work our way through the throng towards the bar when someone called out Charlie’s name. I swear he knew half of everybody there. That’s just the way it was with Charlie, it didn’t matter where he went. The man whom I did not recognize and whose features I can’t rightly recall took Charlie away. I pressed on to the homemade bar that was a chest high wall of milk creates topped with a warped wooden plank. I had two shots of well whisky to get my buzz back then filled a plastic cup courtesy of a nearby keg. I remembered standing around bobbing my head to the music, admiring the graffiti covered walls, helping myself to another beer and then... nothing.
The reel of my memory fluttered as though it had reached its end. It’s as if someone drew the curtain but the players continued their act behind the veil. Strange, I’ve never been a black out drunk. Could I have been slipped something?
Red and blue lights flickered in the rearview mirror. “Fuck the police!”
I pulled to the side of the road less than four blocks from Charlie’s apartment.
“Good day officer!” I said sarcastically as he approached. His hand was poised over his pistols hilt -- a good indication he wasn’t interested is pleasantries.
“License and registration.” He commanded. I obliged him.
“Are you the owner of this vehicle?”
“No sir, though I’m a good friend of the owner.” I responded a bit sheepishly.
“Are you aware that this vehicle has been reported stolen?”
“No sir,” I retorted. “I assure you there has been a mistake.”
I laughed inside, careful not to let my amusement show through. I had stolen it! I would have to punch Charlie in the mouth for turning me in. I thought he hated cops.
“The owner lives just a few blocks ahead,” I continued, “I’m on my way there now.” “I could give him a call if you’d like?”
“You better do that,” the officer said after a pause.
I dialed Charlie as the cop walked a lap around the car. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” I chanted into the ringing phone.
“Would you pop this trunk?!” The cop requested aggressively.
I did as he asked thinking little of it until I heard a familiar ring tone coming from inside the now wide open trunk.
The cop drew his pistol and fixed it on my head. Two other patrols arrived just in time to help drag me out of the car and slam me on the hood of the cruiser behind the Galant. I jerked my head to the side in the midst of this transition to see inside the trunk. I only caught a glimpse before my head was wrestled forward and pressed into the cruiser. Charlie was dead -- his body folded awkwardly into the small trunk, hands bound and legs contorted in an unnatural way so that he faced his own heels. Charlie’s revolver rested on top of the corpse; I had no doubts in my mind that my prints were all over it.
It was plain for me to see that Charlie was set up and I was a convenient scapegoat.
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