Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

4

M
y hometown is a shithole. Not was—
is
. I know this without question, despite not having stepped foot within its city limits in a blissfully long time. Shit, now that I think about it, I haven’t been anywhere near the state in well over a decade. Could it have changed since my time there? Sure, and tomorrow I could start shitting gold bricks that smell like unicorn farts.

The point is, I know. Okay? It was a shithole before I came along, and it was a shithole while I was there, so it stands to reason it’s still one now.

Tully left a year before I did, for reasons I both know and remain ignorant of. And she needed to leave sooner, for both our sakes.

For her, getting out meant staying alive. After Scotty, her clock started ticking fast, like in those movies where the hero has nine hours to defuse the bomb before it destroys the city, but they cut the red wire instead of the red-and-white wire, and suddenly the counter goes apeshit, to a swell of tension-building music and heroes wiping sweaty brows.

Me? I had things to take care of first before I could get out. If Tully had been around, she would have been in the line of fire, so to speak, and I was in no mindset to help her at the time. So I’m glad she was gone, because even though she
was
involved, she didn’t need to
be
involved. If that makes sense. No, what came next after Scotty was between me and those bigoted fucks.

After…well,
settling my affairs
, I wandered this incredible planet of ours. I saw stuff, did stuff. Learned stuff, regretted stuff. Then I did it all over again, just in case. But neither Tully nor I have ever been back to that town, and we’ll never go back. No force this side of Heaven or Hell will change that.

You know what they say about an old wound, right? Leave it the fuck alone because that son of a bitch will bleed you dry soon as look at you.

Why bring this up at all? So there can be what philosophers and drunks have referred to as a
moment of clarity
. So that there’s an understanding going forward. We’ve all been through shit in our lives. Every. Damn. One of us. It affects us, both in the moment and for the rest of our lives.

But that pain isn’t what defines us. It’s what we do with it, how we rise above it or sink below it, that truly matters. You can take it, shape it, and change it through sheer will into a force for good, or you can let it swallow you whole and shit you back out. Those are your only options, and anyone who tries to tell you any different is about to teach you what it’s like to get flushed down a fucking toilet.

I know misery—mine and Tully’s. Scotty’s, too, though Fate thankfully ended my brother’s suffering many long, hard years ago. I miss him every damn day, from the moment I wake up to the moment I let a redhead use me as a body pillow. Tully does too, though for different reasons.

Actually, that’s bull. It’s for the exact same reason—she just loved him in a different way.

I have two photographs in my house. Only two. Everywhere I’ve been, everything I’ve seen, and the only proof of any of it is stored away in a faded, beat-up foot locker deep in the back of my mind. Once that goes—and if you don’t think it will, please kiss my ass—then the truth dies with it.

And that’s exactly how I want it. Leave it all dead and buried, where it fucking belongs.

Both of my photographs are in black and white. One’s of Tully and Scotty, too young and too in love, arms wrapped around each other like Velcro straightjackets. I don’t even know where it was taken, and Tully refuses to say. It’s from her former life, the false one, and she hates that I have it. Too many painful memories, which I understand completely. Out of respect, I keep it on my dresser so she doesn’t have to see it all the damn time.

The second one is of the three of us, all laying back on the hood of the ’69 Boss. I’m in the middle; Tully and Scotty are leaning into my chest, my arms around their shoulders.

The car’s a piece of shit, a junker on shredded tires and bent rims. Half the front end is missing, and the passenger door is held together with string and desperation. We took the photo the day we towed the car back to Tully’s parents’ place, less than an hour before we started gutting it. Each of us are lean and tanned, bare chested and smiling like the cats who fucked the prom queen.

Or whatever.

We were kids, with no idea of the hell that awaited us.

And that’s why I keep that one. To remind myself never to be that fucking stupid ever again.

Tully has lots of photos in her house, but ain’t a damn one of them a reminder of the past. I don’t blame her, but I also don’t agree with her. I need these two memories, and I will always need them.

I’ve no idea what to expect tonight, so I’m packing for a little bit of everything. Half the shit I need is in the walk-in closet in my bedroom, so I keep passing Tully and Scotty as I remember something new to grab. Then I haul the duffel bag downstairs to the living room where I can’t look away from the Mustang and the three fools on it.

Melancholia strikes whenever it chooses, and we have no more control over its arrival than we do the sun coming up in the east. But we absolutely have control over how long it sticks around, so I kick that shit to the curb and get to work.

My duffel bag makes it look like I’m either going to rob a convenience store or build one. I add my sound effects machine and a couple of flash grenades, just in case.

Don’t start. I’ve seen what some people stash in their drawers and closets, and trust me—whether it’s one flash grenade or a dozen, it’s no stranger than a rubber purple schlong big enough to fucking store autumn harvests in.

It’s almost time to go, and I’m down to patting my pockets for inspiration, like the act of touching myself in the middle of my living room will somehow remind me of something I for—

Shit, my miner’s light. How else am I supposed to see what I’m doing? Can’t work in the dark, you know.

My phone rings, and without even looking I know it’s Tully. Not because I have some fancy ringtone that lets me know it’s her. I don’t, because I don’t do ringtones. Their only purpose is to let me know I have a call, and I don’t need Jay-Z or Adele or who-the-fuck-ever telling me that when a simple, old-fashioned
brrrrng
does the trick.

I scoop the phone off the coffee table and answer in one fell swoop. Yeah, I’m that talented. You should see me walk and chew gum. It’s like a fucking magic trick.

“Checking up on me, Mom?” I say into the phone. I wink at Scotty in the photo on my mantle. He’d be laughing if he was here, and knowing he’s not stabs me in the soul a little.

“If I was your mother, I’d have strangled you by now.” I can almost hear Tully smiling.

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Sandecker called.” It’s amazing how quickly she can change topics. It’s almost like she was born a chick. I mean, in a sense she was, but—oh, screw it. You know what I mean. “He thinks someone may be on to the exchange,” she adds.

Her tone matches my face—annoyed as fuck and ready to bust skulls. This last-minute shit isn’t working for either of us, and she’s giving me the chance to back out. And I would, but I’ve already packed up all my toys. Unpacking now is an afternoon wasted.

“Tell me,” I say.

I notice a piece of paper on my coffee table. It’s the receipt from last night, the one from the bar where I met my redheaded vixen. Something’s scribbled on the back of it, but I don’t have time to read it. I wad it up and shove it in my pocket as Tully speaks.

“Turnbill, his admin assistant, told him she received an email from the seller. Seems a third party has been asking about the box.” She sounds more irritated at my refusal to back off than at the turn of events.

“Did Sandecker reply to it?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

She’s going to hate me, but I have to check. “Did you ask him?”

The pause goes on far too long. Yep. I’ll be paying for that one later.

“Of course I asked him.” Her clipped tone is so cold I’m practically getting brain freeze. “He said Turnbill was taking care of things.”

Son of a bitch. Really? That sounds like Sandecker didn’t ask to see the email. It’s a stupid move, and I’m starting to regret my decision to like him. He’s either incompetent, or he’s purposely keeping Tully and me in the dark.

When you’re dealing with nefarious crap like mysterious boxes and exchanges in the middle of the night, you don’t leave shit to chance, and you sure as goddamn fuck don’t trust your secretary to deal with the unexpected all by her lonesome. You verify, you confirm. You don’t assume.

So like I said—stupid. Or manipulative.

A thought does the running man into my brain before slipping on a banana peel and breaking its neck. Say Sandecker
is
being manipulative. Who’s to say he’s manipulating Tully and me? Maybe he’s trying to put one over on either his devoted admin assistant or his partners, assuming he has any.

Food for thought. Or, maybe he’s an idiot. Gut instincts, you know?

I’m sorry, but I’ll take someone’s cash if they’re being stupid. I mean, there are so many dumbasses in the world nowadays that I believe all sane folk deserve something for exercising a little restraint in not Force-choking the crap out of those morons. Whether it’s the jerkwad on their cell phone while they’re doing ten miles under the speed limit in the passing lane, or the ass clown who waits until they’re at the counter to figure out what they’re hungry for, it doesn’t matter. Use your brain, please. That’s all I ask.

But if I’m being intentionally used as a ploy, or a distraction, or a bargaining chip, then I don’t care how big the paycheck is—I will kick someone’s ass so hard they’ll be pulling shoelaces out of their nostrils.

“We’re still on,” I say. Gut feelings aside, there’s not enough to work with yet. It’ll most likely be my undoing, but since when is that a radical notion?

Tully sighs. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Pumpernickel donkey bubble ice cream.”

“Okay, didn’t know you were going to say that.”

“Exactly. Goes to show you don’t know everything.”

“I know I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”

“Anyone else wouldn’t know what they’re getting into. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

There’s a tiny hint of pain in those five words, born from a life of hurt and disappointment, and the metaphoric knife twists a little more to the right.

“Have I ever let you down?” I ask her.

“Not even once.”

“Damn straight.” I look at the time and grab the duffel bag. “Gotta go. Call you later.”

“Damn straight.”

5

W
hen you go to the beach, you wear swimwear. When you’re on a date, you wear deodorant. When you go to the part of town I’m going to, at the time of night I’m going, you wear public transportation. You don’t drive. Taxis would be okay if they were willing to venture this far crazy. But never your own car. That’s begging for trouble, and I hate to beg.

Not that I haven’t had to in my life. I’m a guy. We beg for all sorts of shit, but it’s usually because someone’s got our balls in their grip, and we’d like them back at some point.

God, I want another sandwich. This is why I don’t go to Maggie Jane’s much anymore. Shit’s addictive like you wouldn’t believe, and, like Tully, I’d like to keep wearing…well, not pretty dresses, that’s for sure. But certainly something a little more fashion-forward than a fucking Marlon Brando muumuu.

Island of Dr. Moreau
, anyone? No? Christ on a merry-go-round. Why do I bother?

The exchange is in a six-story abandoned building, the kind that could have been a hotel, a movie theater, or an office building, depending on who owned it and when. It’s a gorgeous design, though: all retro and sharp angles, a wide sweeping staircase around an open-air shaft, and tall windows with decorative trim and rounded heads and frosted glass. No one designs architecture like this anymore. Everything’s composites and prefab with rounded corners everywhere you turn so you don’t hurt yourself when you pass out from all the boring.

I’m not one of those back-in-my-day types either, for your information. I appreciate things that take effort, and I detest things that don’t. It’s that simple.

The lobby-slash-trash receptacle reeks of excrement, pot, mildew, and age. You know what I mean by
age
, right? Shit wears down over time, and it starts to generate foul odors, like a zombie’s fart in a Taco Bell toilet stall.

You know what? Don’t picture that. Forget I said anything.

The stairs are so warped and skewed they remind me of Donkey Kong, but they hold up well enough under the weight of me and my well-stuffed duffel bag.

I’m not fat, for the record. I’m tall, but not fat. Well, you’ve seen me without a shirt. I’m
average
, all the cool kids would say.

And so we’re clear: I kick ass at Donkey Kong.

There’s enough waning daylight coming through enough dirt-caked windows that I don’t need the miner’s light yet, but the last dim rays are sinking fast behind an unseen horizon. The building creaks and moans the higher I climb, gearing up for the soiree to come.

It almost has to be a party, too, given the ingredients: an abandoned building at night, covert exchanges, and a mystery box sought after by a slightly less-mysterious client. It screams for Humphrey Bogart to be the epitome of badass and swagger he’s so rightfully known to be.

I pass the second floor and see a door with a pane of glass set in its upper half. Pale daylight from an outside window behind it reveals enough faded lettering to tell me it was once home to the Chesapeake Investment Group, and my brain automatically changes it to the Cheapskate Investment Group. One, because that’s how my brain works; and two, because, let’s face it, they probably were fucking cheapskates. I never heard of the company, so I’ve no idea what befell them, but I wonder if their clients ever saw their money again, or if it all just magically disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Probably the latter.

In case you can’t tell, I hate this shitty world sometimes. Far more than I want to.

Sandecker’s instructions say I’m looking for the third floor, right side, fourth door on the left. In the blessed name of preparation I walk the entire floor from the opposite direction, taking note of possible hiding spots, distractions, and melee weapons in case things go south. Once it’s all committed to memory, I look for the meeting spot. I find it, pass it, and ease myself through the fifth door on the left. The party starts in two hours, and my surprises aren’t going to set themselves up.

I’d prefer going full surround sound, but I don’t have time to prep two rooms. One will have to do. I slip on my miner’s light and get to work.

Twenty minutes in and I feel it: someone else is here. Maybe not on this floor, but definitely in the building, unless my spider-sense is picking up a butt-load of rats.

Side note: Did you know that a ‘butt’ is an actual unit of measure for wine or whiskey? True story. It’s one hundred twenty-six gallons, according to the American system, or one hundred eight if you’re Imperially minded. British Imperial, not
Star Wars
Imperial. Just FYI. Toss that out at your next party and watch the panties drop. Trust me.

Okay, that creak definitely wasn’t from the building settling. Nor that one. Those would be footsteps. Someone’s coming down the hall. Damn it. It’s way too early for the exchange, so either a hobo is looking for a new corner to shit in, or I have company of the less-than-wanted variety.

Hang on—do people still call them hobos? Do they still hop on rail cars and carry that stick with the little red handkerchief at the end of it full of who-fucking-cares, or is that all stored in an internet cloud now, along with everyone’s porn collection and food selfies?

Did I mention I’m not too fond of rats?

The sounds stop outside my door. Ha.
Mine
, like I own the place. Sure, legally I have no jurisdictional claim, but damn it, I was here first. Go find your own hiding spot, you bastard.

The door’s kicked open and a man enters, dark as the night that’s coming on fast. Tall, like me, but fat, not like me. Well, not fat. Let’s go with
muscled
, also not like me. Not that I’m a goo-bag. I just don’t, you know, work out that often.

Don’t judge me. I can kick your ass at Donkey Kong.

There’s no place to hide, and I’ve got no time to build one. I’m not fucking MacGyver here. Although, if my life story were to be silver screen-ified, I could do worse than having Richard Dean Anderson play me. I mean, we look nothing alike, but he’s a pretty solid actor, and I think he could pull it off.

“Room for one more?” the man asks, aiming a flashlight and a gun at me.

Fuck.

I really hate guns.