Suicide Squeeze

36

In the dream, Conner moved like molasses.

He hovered near third base waiting for the pitch. At which time he’d take off running for home in the hopes the batter laid down a good bunt. Conner had to start running before he knew if the bunt was down. That was the tough part. It required guts. Faith.

The pitch. And Conner ran. His feet caught in the mud. He strained to put one foot in front of the other. Tyranny was at home plate waving him in. When Conner looked again, she was waving him off. He tried to run, barely able to move, not able to tell if he was welcomed at home or not.

He fell, facefirst in the mud. He tried to see, to blink the mud out of his eyes. Where was the ball? Had the bunt been laid down? He tried to get up, couldn’t make his body obey.

The weight of eternity held him facedown in the mud, and from a long way away, a voice called, Conner’s name echoing down a dark tunnel.

“Conner!” Big hands shaking him awake. “Conner-man, get your ass up. Come on! We’ve got to get out of here.”

Conner’s eyes popped open, tried to focus. He saw Otis shove aside Rocky’s desk like it was made of foam rubber. Otis knelt at a cabinet behind the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and withdrew a big leather doctor’s bag.

Conner faded briefly, eyes crossing. He felt his body being lifted, arms and legs dangling. His head cleared. How many times had he been knocked cold in the last few days? He looked around. He was being carried. Fat Otis toted him under a huge arm. Bleeding bodies lay around the office. Rocky looked so small.

A wave of dread and grief washed over Conner. He forced it down into his gut, cut himself off from it. “Put me down.”

“We don’t have time for you to pull yourself together,” Otis said.

“I can walk.”

Otis put him down. Conner wobbled on his feet a moment, steadied himself. He remembered the Japanese guy holding the DiMaggio card and darted for Rocky’s desk.

Otis yelled, “Dammit, come on!”

“One second.” Conner rifled the papers on Rocky’s desk until he found what he was looking for. The Japanese had taken the card but left the Monroe letter in the plastic bag. Conner snatched it just as Otis grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the office. Conner stuffed the letter in his pocket.

The warehouse was a mess. More bodies. A few Japanese but mostly Rocky’s guys. The strip club was worse. The bar was on fire. They coughed their way through and out the open door into the street. They passed a group of determined firemen going the other way. The street flickered in the red lights of the emergency vehicles. More sirens in the distance.

Now Conner understood Otis’s hurry. The place crawled with cops (there were already one squad car and a brace of uniforms directing traffic away from the fire), and neither Conner nor Otis was inclined to stick around and answer awkward questions. There was still plenty of confusion, but soon they’d get organized.

Otis had parked his Lincoln just beyond the fire trucks. They drove in a random direction. Conner slumped in the passenger seat, every one of his nerves frazzled. Pensacola suddenly looked like a town he’d never seen before, full of strangers and enemies. Nothing was understandable, Playerz and Rocky swept away in a blazing storm. On a whim. For a baseball card. Conner’s life had revealed itself as a surreal, cosmic joke. Somewhere, the gods held their sides laughing. Look at the silly mortals.

Conner figured he must have only been out of it a few minutes. It had seemed like days. “What happened?”

“Shit,” Otis spit. “I was hoping you could tell me.” Otis relayed his side of it. After the car wash, Otis had run some errands, taken care of Rocky’s business. When he returned, he’d found Playerz a smoldering, bloody wreck. He’d run back to find Rocky, only to find his boss shot full of lead. Conner had survived by dumb luck.

Conner felt anger radiating off Otis. He’d been loyal to Rocky. Every muscle in the big man’s body was a coiled spring. Jaw set. The vein in his neck throbbing time like a bass drum.

“Tell me what you know about this,” Otis said. “So I know who to kill.”

Conner spilled the story. It didn’t occur to him for a second to hold anything back. The Electric Jenny, the Japanese, the DiMaggio card. The whole shooting match. Otis asked the obvious questions. Conner answered. Otis said he didn’t think Rocky had pissed off any Japanese dudes, not that he knew of.

“I don’t think it’s a vendetta,” Conner said. “It’s the baseball card. They killed another guy for it too.” He told Otis about Folger and the bungalow.

“This is fucking bullshit.” Otis slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. “Nobody kills a bunch of people and burns down a fucking strip club for no fucking baseball card.”

Any collectible is only worth what somebody is willing to pay, thought Conner. But the price wasn’t just money now. It included blood. “Those Asian guys must know there’s a reward for it.”

Otis’s eyes flamed wild with rage. “We got to find these motherfuckers and do something.”

Conner didn’t say anything.

“No, no, no, no.” Otis shook his head. “Don’t you shut down on me. I’m not in the mood for your Conner Samson sit-on-the-sidelines bullshit. You’re in this right up to your ass.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your damn attitude. Like you ain’t involved. You know what your problem is?”

“Jesus.” America’s new pastime. Tell Conner Samson his problem.

“You ain’t a team player.”

“Fuck you.”

“It’s true. That’s why you got kicked off the college baseball team.”

“I didn’t get kicked off the team,” Conner said. “I flunked out.”

Otis went on like he didn’t hear. “Rocky was my team. And somebody just fucked with my team big-time. And if you think I’m going to sit around with my thumb up my ass, then you’re screwed in the head. Now you better tell me on whom I can vent my mighty wrath. Otherwise, the only motherfucker around here to vent on is you.”

“I have one idea,” Conner said. “Somebody who might know something.”

“Then call them,” Otis said. “What you waiting on? Dial the fucking phone.”