Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (11 page)

Patrick reached out with a hand to steady him. “You know this already, Bob. Hell, it seems like the whole
country
knows.”

Bob smiled. “Yeah, but no one knew about Amy and the nail file in the balls … ”

Patrick sighed again. “I stabbed one and shot one,” he said quickly.

Bob cocked his head, made a disappointed yet friendly face that asked for more. “
Come on …
” he crooned.

Give him something, Patrick. Christ, anything so we can squash this.

Patrick leaned in and whispered: “I bit one guy’s nose off.”

Bob’s drunken slits for eyes popped wide. “You
what
?”

Patrick looked around, saw that no eyes were on him, then lifted his shirt and showed the thick purple scar on his abdomen. Bob’s eyes zeroed in on it like it was a pair of tits. “I had just been stabbed; I was full of adrenaline … so I just grabbed the guy, bit his nose off, then threw him to the floor and shot him to death.”

“Jesus …”

Let it go now, Bob. Please.

“I think you need a drink,” Bob said.

Patrick held up his beer. “Got one.”

“A
real
goddamned drink. A drink to pay my respects to you for saving my daughter’s life.”

Bob’s voice was loud and it made Patrick cringe. He scanned the room quickly to see if anyone had heard. With the exception of a few locals clinging to the bar, and a big man sitting alone with a beer at a corner table, the place was fairly empty. No one seemed to have heard.

Patrick leaned into Bob’s ear and spoke softly. “Okay—one last drink. Then I’m taking us home.”

Bob slammed his hand on the bar and hollered for two shots of whiskey. The bartender gave Patrick a subtle glance, and Patrick returned a subtle nod. The bartender shrugged and poured their shots.

Bob pulled out a wad of bills.

“I got this, Bob,” Patrick said, shifting on the stool and reaching for his own wallet.

Bob waived his hand away with the grace of a gorilla. “No way. You’re in
my
town. Your money’s no good here.”

Patrick didn’t object.

Let him pay. Just do the damn shots and go.
Speaking of which …

“Can I have the keys to the car, Bob?”

Bob looked genuinely surprised when Patrick asked. “What for?”

You don’t tell a man of Bob Corcoran’s ilk that he’s too drunk to drive. You’d be better off telling him he had a little dick. Patrick knew that. He weighed a response and settled on: “Because you had more to drink than I did.”

Bob grinned. “I can make it home from Gilley’s with my friggin’ eyes closed.”

Patrick chuckled and switched to a more placating approach. He had worked as a bouncer during his time at Penn State, and knew through experience that reasoning with a drunk was a lesson in futility. “I’m sure you can, but if we got pulled over …”

Bob shook his head, still grinning. “We’ll take Woodmere; we’ll be fine.”

The bartender brought the drinks, and Bob used the diversion to cut the conversation. He snatched one of the shots, handed it to Patrick, and then grabbed his own, spilling some onto his hand. He raised the glass. “To my son-in-law!”

Patrick quickly leaned into his ear again. “Let’s just leave it at that, okay, Bob? Nothing about Amy or what happened.”

Bob shrugged, and then once again, louder now: “
To my son-in-law!
”

Patrick was not about to wait and see if Bob would leave it at that. He raised his glass and downed the shot in an instant.

Bob gulped his own, gasped, and then slammed the glass down on the bar. He turned to Patrick and pulled him in for a titanic hug, nearly pulling Patrick clean-off his stool. “Thank you, son,” he said in his ear. And then again when they separated, both hands cupping Patrick’s face as though he meant to pull him in for a kiss: “Thank you, son.”

Bob Corcoran had called Patrick
son
—something he had never done before. Son-in-law, yes, but never just son. Patrick knew Bob was very drunk, but he also knew true gratitude and sincerity when he saw it. It made his response all the more difficult; a lump had suddenly grown in his throat. “You’re very welcome,” he managed. Patrick then allowed a brief moment to pass before donning a playful smirk. “Now … can I please have the keys to the car …
Dad?
”

Bob studied him.

Patrick knew he had him on the ropes, and so he added—in the dreadful tone Amy both loathed and loved—a little Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” with extra special emphasis on
Dad
and
borrowing car keys
, to finish him off.

Bob finally gave a hearty laugh and admitted defeat. He dug into his pocket and handed over the keys. “You are one piece of work, my boy,” he said. “Just promise me no more singing.”

“Yup—you’re definitely Amy’s father.”

Both men laughed then stood from their stools. Bob knocked his over and started laughing harder. Patrick picked up the stool, thanked the bartender, and guided his swaying father-in-law out of Gilley’s.

*

John Brooks sat alone at a corner table. He’d heard the entire conversation between Bob Corcoran and Patrick Lambert: Earlier he had planted a bugging device beneath the bar ledge where the two men had hunkered down. He had planted the device when Patrick had gotten up to use the toilet and when Bob was busy shouting at the television, just after the Admirals had scored their one and only goal.

The conversation was minimal at first. And even if it
had
been substantial, little could be articulated in John’s invisible earpiece. The roar of the patrons was as good as a scrambler. But that was okay. It gave him time to study the pair; watch their body-language; observe their habits. Spot faults. Weaknesses.

When the game ended and the crowd began to filter out, John heard more. He heard and watched it all: the Santa-looking fucker salivating with pride while Patrick told him how his cunt-of-a-daughter had jammed a nail file into his dead son’s balls. How Patrick had then bitten his son’s nose off before shooting him to death. How he had stabbed Arthur repeatedly.

John sensed apprehension from Patrick when he had relayed the events of that night. If it wasn’t in his voice, it was in the way he shifted on his stool as he spoke. Truly he did not derive any pleasure from reliving the tragedy, contain any sense of pride for what he’d done. And that was good. It was a chink in the man’s armor. It showed a conscience. John Brooks’ only brush with conscience was when he had to spell it.

“You want anything else?” his waitress asked.

John shook his head and handed her two twenties. More than enough. “Keep it.”

“Thanks, hon.”

He waited for the waitress to disappear into the back before he stood and approached Bob’s stool. The bartender was wiping down the counter.

“Never misses a game does he?”

The bartender glanced up. “Who Bob? Not a chance. Rain, sleet, or snow.”

John gave a smile. The bartender turned and started wiping the opposite end of the counter. John reached under the bar, removed the bug, and stared at it with bottled rage as though the tiny device in his palm was more culprit than transmitter for the atrocities he’d heard tonight.

He ignored the bartender’s goodbye as he left.

*

John Brooks sat parked in Gilley’s lot, engine idling on a battered Dodge Dakota, bought and paid for in cash upon arrival in Harrisburg. He was playing back the conversation between Patrick and Bob on the hand-held device he had used to record the give and take. When it came to the part about Amy sticking a nail file into his dead son’s balls, John hit rewind, and played it again. He listened, immediately hit rewind, and played it again. During an attempted fourth run, John Brooks had a momentary lapse in restraint and squeezed until the device splintered in his hand, setting free a slice of plastic that pierced deep into his palm. He tossed the broken device to the floor, but did not pull the plastic shard out. He pushed it
deeper
into his flesh, swirling it, teasing his nerve-endings. The pain was good; it gave him a sense of control again. He pushed harder on the plastic, blood streaming down his arm, warm and sticky, pulling his sleeve to his skin like cling wrap.

Better now, John Brooks pulled the plastic shard from his hand, wiped his bloodied palm on his jeans, and flicked the shard out his window like a cigarette butt. He pulled away from the bar humming “Cats in the Cradle.”

Chapter 18

Patrick felt Amy straddling him but refused to open his eyes. He knew he’d be looking up at a devious grin that was more than ready to talk loud and jar the hell out of the bed that was his hangover crypt.

“I know you’re awake,” she said.

One eye creaked open. “Please let me die in peace.”

She yelled: “What’s wrong, baby?!”

The one eye snapped shut. He grimaced and moaned.

She bounced on his chest. “Wake up, sleepy head!”

Both eyes creaked open this time. “Why do you hate me?”

Her grin was out of a cartoon. “Good morning, my love. How do you feel?”

“You
know
how I feel. What time is it?”

“Almost ten. I let you sleep in.”

“Thank you. Any chance I could go to eleven?”

“My dad’s been up since six.”

“
What?
He was
hammered
last night. How the hell was he up so early?”

“Up and playing with Carrie and Caleb by seven.”

“The guy’s a freak. He had twice as much to drink as I did, and I feel like crap.”

“Yeah, well, even though I take no pride in saying this, my father is what you’d call a functioning alcoholic.”

“He wasn’t functioning too well last night. He wanted to drive home, you know.”

Amy hung her head for a second. “Yeah … he’s like that. Taking his keys is like taking his machismo.”

“It’s dangerous. He was really drunk, Amy. I mean, I’ll admit, I had a buzz going, so I’m not trying to act all high and mighty here, but to think of him behind the wheel, in the state he was in …”

Amy rolled off Patrick’s chest and took the other side of the bed. She seemed to have no other answer but: “I know.” After a brief silence that Patrick wished would last an eternity, she asked, “How
did
you get his keys?”

Patrick rolled onto his side and faced her. “I sang to him.”

“Oh
God
. No wonder he gave them up. Poor Daddy.”

“It worked didn’t it?”

“Did you have fun?”

“I did. It turned out to be a really good time. Things got a little serious towards the end though.”

“I thought the Bears won?”

“No, I mean between me and your dad.”

Amy made a curious face and propped herself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

Patrick had no intention of telling Amy he had divulged the taboo specifics about Crescent Lake to her father. Sure, he had to worry about Bob getting loose lips after a few too many somewhere down the road, but that was a bet he had no interest in handicapping right now, especially when it felt like his head was in a vice.

“He started getting pretty emotional about what happened to us. He thanked me for saving your life. I told him you saved mine just as much as I saved yours. He liked that. He even cried.”

“My father
cried
?”

“Yup. He even called me ‘son.’ Twice. I got a little choked up myself.”

“Aww, baby …” She snuggled in close and kissed him on the nose. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave you alone until eleven, then we have to get going. Caleb has an early appointment with Dr. Bogan tomorrow.”

“I fucking
love
you.”

She laughed, kissed him on the nose again, and left. Patrick was snoring a minute later.

Chapter 19

John Brooks sat on the edge of the motel bed, cell in one hand, Hershey Bears game schedule in the other. He dialed his daughter’s number.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. We’re good. You’ll need to be here no later than seven tonight.”

“You sound eager.”

“I am eager,” he said.

She laughed. “See? I told you we’d have fun.”

He conceded with his usual grunt.

She laughed again. “Seven tonight.”

John hung up and checked the bandage on his right hand. The wound on his palm was still raw from last night. The rage suddenly flickered. He made a fist, squeezing until blood leaked through his massive knuckles. He opened his hand, looked at the Bears’ schedule again, wiped blood on it. His rage finally simmered when he entertained feeding the bloodied paper to Bob Corcoran tonight.

Chapter 20

Monica stepped out of Gilley’s Tavern and lit a cigarette. She stuck the butt between her full lips and wrapped the lapels of her overcoat tight around her neck with both hands to shield the cold.

Idling ten yards away, John Brooks waited anxiously in his daughter’s new BMW. Given their current surroundings, the recently acquired Dodge Dakota that looked as if it had been rolled down a mountain would have been far more apt in passing the anonymity test, but for tonight’s performance the spotless new BMW was a necessity: It would be playing the distinguished role of bait.

John tapped the horn. She nodded towards the car and took a final drag of her cigarette, flicked it to the ground where it sparked orange then smoldered. She strolled unassumingly towards the car and entered.

“He bought me a drink,” she said after shutting the door.

“Oh yeah?”

She smirked and began fiddling with the heat. “Sure did, the dirty old bugger.”

“How much time left in the game?”

“Not much. He’s pretty loaded already. If he has a few more after …”

“He will—especially if the Bears win.”

“Can’t see how’d they lose. They were beating Adirondack six to nothing when I walked out.”

John allowed himself a small smile. “Perfect.”