The Cold, Hard Weight of It

Jack pulled the gun from the car’s glovebox and wrapped his hand around the textured grip. The 9mm pressed down on him. Held him hostage. He wallowed in its power and allure. Its unspoken promise of things to come.

The cold, hard weight of it.

The steel barrel shimmered in the fluorescence of a lingering streetlight. It was hypnotic and Jack, high on cocaine, was easily lost at sea. Like an old-time picture-show, images from his past came to him. First in black and white and then in vivid color—

The metal-framed carousel house. The gentle ocean waves lapping the shoreline. Clouds like down pillows racing across the skyline stoked by summer winds. Jenn in a simple, white lace gown that flowed to the floor. The veil cascading behind her, framing her oval face. Her smile as wide and open as the bay.

Hard to believe the wedding was ten years ago. They were both so young and with good deep inside them. Separate, they didn’t amount to much, but together, they had potential. A real chance to make a go of it. An opportunity to surmount all the obstacles they’d inherited from their broken parents.

But unfortunately, it didn’t take long before things went bust. Before Jack pulled them down. He was weak and his thirsts unrelenting: cheating, gambling, addiction. The burden of abandoned dreams, dragging him under until he couldn’t catch his breath.

Jack squeezed the gun’s grip; his fist turned bright red from the tension. The screen in his head shifted from the wedding. This time it was nine months later—

His son’s first cries of life at St. Joe’s Hospital. The innocence in Jack Jr’s tender blue eyes. His cherub-like face a blend of his parents’ best features. The doctor handing over the fragile human bundle.

The boy had weighed next to nothing: a mere six and a half pounds. But he was Jack’s responsibility. And what the hell could Jack teach him? As a parent fresh out of high school, he could barely take care of himself. Sadly, now on the cusp of thirty, not much had changed.

Marcus punched Jack in the shoulder. Hard. “Hey! Wake up. What the hell?”

“Huh,” Jack mumbled, his face ashen. His heart still beat, but it slowed with each passing day. He was numb inside.

Marcus hit him again. “Snap out of it.”

Jack shook his head to clear it. “Sorry.”

“You doped up again?”

“No,” Jack lied.

“I’d wager good money you are.”

Jack raised his voice. “I was just thinking.”

Marcus glowered. “About what? The job?”

Jack raked his free hand through his hair. It was brown, slicked back. His silence spoke volumes.

“Why don’t you do us both a favor and leave the thinkin’ to me?”

Jack hesitated, turned to Marcus. “We got this, right?”

Marcus stared at him. His onyx-colored eyes almost matched his skin. “What? You having second thoughts?”

“No,” he stuttered.

“You’re in as deep as me.”

“More.”

“Damn straight.”

“I just want my life back,” Jack said.

“Then focus on the job for a change.”

Jack nodded.

“We do this—do it right—and your share will be enough to solve all your problems and then some.”

“Okay.”

Marcus slid his hand along the top of the Impala’s worn dashboard. It was crazed from years of punishing sunlight. “Where’d you get this piece of shit anyway?”

Jack smiled, leaned back into the passenger seat. “It was a steal. Literally.”

“I bet. They should’ve paid you to take it.”

Jack laughed. Anything to improve Marcus’s mood.

“This is the last time I put you in charge of the getaway car, asshole.”

Marcus was right. Another bad decision piled on top of a pile of bad decisions. Screwing shit up was Jack’s gift. And Fast and Easy were his regular bedfellows. Time and again, they led him astray. The sad part was that he never learned from his mistakes. He always went willingly into the fire, fueled by desire and desperation.

Marcus glanced at his cellphone: 6:00 a.m. He pulled a black ski mask over his head and rechecked his weapon. Grabbed his nylon backpack. It was filled with ammo for two jobs plus safecracking tools in case the combination from his inside man didn’t work. He turned to Jack. “Let’s get this damn thing over with.”

“Sounds, good.”

“Oh, and Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you cover me.”

Jack pulled his mask on and they exited the vehicle. First morning light peered over the horizon. The heat of a new day rose off the wet pavement. An odor of weed and urine tarnished the air. Jack thought the weed smelled good.

They moved through the littered alley until they found the rear entrance to the dispensary. The door hung ajar like the previous mornings when they’d scouted it out. If their intel was correct, there’d be a single custodian cleaning for a 10 a.m. opening. The security cameras and alarms would be turned off. Marcus cracked the door open further and they entered. This early on a Monday morning the place would be flooded with cash from weekend sales.

Weed was legal in Oregon. It was a whole new world.

Marcus led them down a narrow hallway armed with a .357 Magnum. Jack held back, the 9mm hanging low like a dumbbell at his side. Perspiration built under his mask and clothes. His hands shook. And not from his morning dose. He was all too familiar with that sensation.

They rounded the corner of the hall. It opened to a main storage area stacked with boxes of merchandise and large vacuum-sealed bags of weed. Except for the slight shuffle of their feet on the bare wood floor, the store sounded quiet. The strip lights above them flickered on and off like special effects at a carnival funhouse.

Then everything went to shit.

A shadow hit the wall in front of them, followed by a figure. A boom reverberated off the sheetrock walls. And another. Jack slammed against the adjacent wall but managed to secure his footing. The burnt smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils. Marcus dropped like a sack to the floor. The signature “Ch-chunk” of a racking shotgun quickened Jack to life. Like eyes on a wild carnivore, two barrels of a Mossberg 12-gauge stared him down.

Jack lifted his weapon. Now it seemed weightless, his fears and hopes raising it with ease. He pulled the trigger as fast and as often as he could. Unfortunately, he only managed to get off three rounds and they went wide. Jack gasped, grabbed at his chest. It was hot. Wet. He tore at his mask and crumbled to the floor. Crimson stained his clothes.

The dark figure approached. Slowly. Came into view and kneeled next to him. Placed a pistol gripped shotgun on the floor. Jack blinked. And again. His mind, paralyzed by shock and pain, couldn’t process what his eyes were telling him.

“Why?” he said finally, his words almost inaudible.

“For our boy,” Jenn whispered. “We need a fresh start. Without you always bringing us down.”

Jack coughed, his breath labored.

Jenn stroked his hair. “I’m his mother. I have to protect him. Even if that means from you.”

A large gray duffle bag sat on the floor a few feet from her. She reached over and grabbed it. Lifted and opened it wide for Jack to see. It was brimming with cash banded in stacks. All denominations. Plus, a stash of weed and gummies.

“Even more than you imagined,” she said with a tender smile. “You finally did it right. Gambled it all and scored big.”

Jack’s body started to tremble. Blood leaked from his torso and pooled on the floor around him.

“I got here about thirty minutes before you,” Jenn said. “Followed Marcus’s plan to the letter. Everything you bragged about was spot on. Even the safe combination.”

Jack reached for her hand. Grabbed it with the last strength he could muster.

She squeezed it and let go. “I shot the cleaning guy. Can’t afford any witnesses.”

Jack forced a nod.

“I’m sorry it had to end. But at least our son has a fighting chance.” She gestured to the cash. “With this I can make a real life for him.”

“He’s the only good thing I ever did.”

Jenn kissed him on the forehead. Her velvet lips brushed his skin.

“The one thing I’m proud of.”

She grabbed the duffle and the 12-gauge, stood and walked away toward the alley. The faint scent of her floral shampoo lingered. Jack thought he heard her cry. Then the screen in his head shifted to the future. A future he’d never have.

Cold. The hard weight of it.

It was the last thing Jack felt, but at least he felt something.

BIO: James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer and Derringer Finalist who resides in the Northwest U.S.A. He holds degrees from Rutgers University and Brooklyn College. His work has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Thrill Ride Magazine, Gumshoe Review and more.

For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com or https://jpendure.wixsite.com/james-p-focarile