Off the Wagon, Part 5: Meeting new People.

He died for nothing.
Literally he died for fifty-two dollars, a credit card with a four hundred dollar limit, and a list of phone numbers he would never call again. He had thought his wallet was worth his life. It was fucked up that this man was willing to lose his life over a hunk of cow skin and a few pieces of paper and plastic.
Paul looked down on the body he had just killed. The man was no more than twenty-five or thirty. His suit was cheap, but fit him well and he had a mullet haircut., bleached blond. He must have been on a date. Men of any age were morons when they had a woman with them. He should have known better, Booker had always told him to watch out for the hero types.
The girl had fainted at the sight of the gun, Paul would have never hurt her, he didn’t do things like that. She was pretty, but past her prime. He wouldn’t have hurt the guy either if he hadn’t been such an asshole.
Paul had never killed anyone before, well there had been another, but never sober. He had threatened to hundreds of times, but he had never had to prove his sincerity. He looked at the blood that was spreading out from under the man’s body, turning the concrete red. There was no going back now, he had crossed a line.
Paul put the money in his coat pocket and disappeared down an alley way.
He needed a drink. He had always been partial to vodka.
Paul always remembered that night ten years ago when he drank vodka.
Once upon a time it had been his favorite. He had been all of sixteen when he had killed that man. Consequently he never drank vodka again. But the girl he was talking to did. He could smell it wafting through her breath, it was subtle, but it was there.
The girl on the street had been blonde, just like Jodie was. Paul wondered if she would shut up if he told her the story. She had been talking non-stop for almost an hour. She was getting a promotion or something, she was genuinely excited to work in an office. No, her name wasn’t Jodie, it was Jesse. Actually looking forward to a bigger cubicle. Fuck, it started with a J, or a G. He had already asked her three times what her name was.
Jennifer? Was that it? No, it was a short name. Paul listened to her, smiling at the right times, putting on a mask of attention. She was lonely, he could tell. She looked as if she was about thirty-five, with a dirty blond short suburban mom haircut. She was too skinny, and her voice had a lifetime smoking habit accent. She just wanted to talk with someone and celebrate her good luck, and unfortunately to share her entire life story. He had another two hours to wait with nothing better to do, so he humored her.
“So, tell me about you. What do you do?” she said.
She had finally run out of verbal vomit. To spew at his uninterest.
“I’m between jobs at the moment,” Paul said as he indicated to the bartender he wanted another beer.
“What did you do before?’
“Before what?”
“Before you became between jobs?”
“I was a manager at the Wendy’s down on Jefferson St.”
“Really, that sounds interesting, why did you quit?”
“I got fired.”
“Why?”
“I never charged for cheese.”
“They fired you for that?”
“Yeah. That and I masturbated in the bathroom on my lunchbreak.”
That image made her smile. It almost made her attractive for a second.
“You’re full of shit,” she said moving her chair a hint closer to him.
“Yeah, the truth just isn’t that interesting.”
“Come on what’s the truth?”
“I was a Priest.”
She rolled her eyes, “If you don’t want to tell me just say so.”
“You know that church down on 52nd street?”
“The one next to the circle K?”
“That’s the one. That was mine. Prince of Peace, United Methodist church. I stopped believing in God.”
He could see it in her face, she didn’t know what to say. It was hard to Tell when Paul was lying. He smiled inwardly to himself. Paul’s father had been a priest, that was close enough to the truth.
The bartender set a phone down on the bar in front of Paul.
“It’s for you,” he said.
“Excuse me,” Paul told Sarah? Synthia? “I have to take this.”
Paul got up and headed for the back of the bar, by the pay phones. It was probably Calvin.
“Hello?”
“What’s up? How’re you fuckin’ doing?”
It was Calvin, he was unable to speak without swearing.
“I am having the time of my life. These single’s bars are great to sit in for hours at a time. It’s like some kind of premonition of hell.”
“I could have sent you to a fucking titty bar, but being a fag and all I figured you would fuckin’ like this bar better,” Paul could practically see Calvin’s annoying sneer, the one he always had when he thought he was funny.
“What’s the deal?”
“Why are you so fuckin’ serious all of a fuckin’ sudden?” Calvin laughed, “Kyle will be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Fucking A Calvin, you know I hate that fuck. Why do you delight in tormenting me with all this bullshit.”
“He’s good and you know it, put your fuckin’ personal feelings aside and fucking do what you’re told.”
“You send someone else, Kyle is a retard and I won’t put my personal safety in his hands.”
“Shut the fuck up. You want the money, you’ll fuckin’ do what I say. He’ll be there soon,” Calvin hung up the phone.
Paul turned the phone off and went to the bathroom. There were four toilets, and seven people in the bathroom. Men waiting in line to pee, what was the world coming to? Paul turned to the sink and turned on the faucet and put his finger into the stream to test the temperature. After a few seconds the water was cold.
Cupping his hands, Paul splashed the water onto his face and closed his eyes. The water woke him up. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Kyle.
That fuckface was bad news. To him it was not a job. It was a hobby, something fun to pass the time. Working with him meant you were going to do something really fucked up, something most people might choke up on. One thing was certain, if Kyle was on the job, someone was going to die.
Paul walked to the paper towel dispenser, only to discover that it was a hot air blower. How was he supposed to dry his face. He’d look like an asshole putting his head under the thing.
Silently cursing technology, Paul went back to his seat at the bar, his face wet. Janet was still there.

Sharon had written her name on a napkin along with her phone number. Travis told her he would call her, but he had been lying.
Kyle had signaled Travis from the door. He had not said anything yet. They got into his car, took off down the road, and still he was silent. He was sulking Travis realized.
“What’s up your ass?” Travis asked.
“Some sonofafuck kidnapped my Goddaughter. Some perverted, twisted, nazi assfuck, cut off three of her fingers, and ransomed her for a hundred large,” Kyle said.
“You’re Goddaughter is Sarah Gordan, isn’t she, who would be that fucking stupid?”
“I don’t know. But when we find them they won’t be stupid for much longer.”
No doubt of that. Sarah Gordan was the daughter of Eric Gordan, who everybody including his wife called Mr. Gordan. Mr. Gordan was a legendary crime boss from out east that had been forced to go into hiding and move his business somewhere new. He was older now, and had many legitimate businesses, but he had just as many illegal ones. He was also a mean son of a bitch. No one fucked with him or his own, and Sarah was his little princess. He loved her more than anything.
“Do we have any idea where these fuckers are?” Paul asked.
“I just got done talking to Mr. Gordan. He said he got a lead that they were up in Pinewood.”
“Pinewood? That shit hole.”
“Yep, it’s those damn kids with no parents to beat the shit out of them. Teach them right and wrong.”
OR to teach them not to fuck with men like Mr. Gordan.