Trace the Dead Eye

CHAPTER NINE

  THE SQUEEZE

  I followed him to a pay phone which in a stroke of someone’s genius had been stuck on a sidewalk in the middle of a residential block. It now sat askew on a bent cement post. Graffiti covered every inch of its surface. The small box was a survivor of a dying age, a lesser technology in a cheaper day, and it seemed as if the anger of the area had been taken out on the defenseless machine. But it had withstood the beating to remain stubbornly useful. Jim fumbled in his pockets for change. He pulled out a handful of coins, flipping through them with his forefinger and separating two. He dropped them into the slot and pushed some buttons, only to hit the Coin Return and begin the process again. In the midst of dialing he stopped, swore, then suddenly smashed the phone with the handset three times. He leaned his head against the phone and took deep breaths, then got his money back and dialed again. Slower.

  I pressed my ear through the receiver and listened as the phone rang and rang and answered.

  "Hello." A man's voice, gruff, no-nonsense.

  "It's me."

  A long pause. "Who is this?"

  Jim chuckled. "That's right. Who am I? Just a nobody...a nobody you know. And you know why."

  Another pause, then in low, firm tones of disgust: "What do you want?"

  "I'm changing our deal."

  "What?"

  "Our arrangement."

  "No. Don't call here again."

  "I want more."

  "I said no."

  "Say it again," Jim said. "I still want more.."

  "There is no more."

  "There's always more. The world's full of more. Your world."

  Silence. "And if I don't?"

  "Then you'll lose it all."

  "I have nothing to fear from you."

  "I still have a gun," Jim snarled, then his tone went calm. "One phone call and you’d be in jail.”

  "You'd be the one going to jail, not me." The voice sounded weak and tinny.

  "Maybe," he said. "There are ways around things. I could just as well walk. Besides, I've been there, and it's as bad as you think. But I survived. Who knows if you would?"

  Lots of silence now, breaths. "What are we talking about?"

  Jim smiled. "Not much. Another thousand...every month. Starting tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? You’re crazy.”

  “Crazy enough to kill. Again.”

  There was a pause. “I need more time."

  "Time's up. Tomorrow."

  "Wait," the voice yelped. "When? Where?"

  "Our favorite place. Six p.m.” A pause. “Bring dinner."

  The man cleared his throat and started to speak but as he did Jim hung up and laughed.

  He walked away and I let him. In his state there was little he would do tonight besides sleep, and even if we were both headed in the same direction I was tired of his company. But I was impressed. Not content with drugs and prostitution, Jim had gotten mixed up in extortion, maybe murder. He had killed before, he said, and maybe again. Or perhaps it was simply bravado. Life was full of surprises.

  I wondered as I walked back to the bungalow about the who and the why and the where, but those thoughts drifted away as others drifted in, and with them a plan for Jim's removal was slowly beginning to form.