Y TEN THIRTY GREG HAD returned to the front of the biomedical center and relieved Sound from duty. Sitting on the bench, he thought of Reverend Keller and the way he had spoken in such an odd parable. The words had caused Greg deep reflection ever since. How could he hope to have his family and life back without putting forth any real effort? The notion of fixing a computer problem by prayer alone was ridiculous. And prayer, as powerful as it may be, wasn’t the only thing lacking in Greg’s life, by far. He needed to do something, work it out. Yet it all seemed so overwhelming.
During his watch, Greg kept a close look-out on the gym down the street. Around noon, Clint arrived, and opened the door to let in a few die-hard weightlifters. The staff in the basement weren’t expected to return until Monday morning, and the metal door leading downstairs was dead-bolted tight.
Shortly after, Cap’n arrived, introducing himself with a fierce handshake and deep voice. Despite the climbing temperature, he wore an ill fit Desert Storm military-issue coat with captain’s bars sown to each shoulder. Sweat ran profusely down the big black man’s face and over his skunk-striped beard, dripping like rain on the front of his soaked camouflaged shirt.
Greg discretely wiped the sweaty handshake on his “previouslyowned” pants and introduced himself.
“So, you’re Sunny. Nice to meet you!” Cap’n boomed. Then he pulled a strap from his shoulder, lifted a two and a half-gallon cooler above his mouth, tilted back his wide head and gulped the splashing water down his hollow throat. Half of it leaked from the corners of the man’s mouth and onto his belly. “Hotter n’ hadies today, ain’t it,” he said, after drinking what seemed like an entire lake-full.
Greg agreed with a curious smile. All at once, Cap’n let loose with an “Oh!” Pulling the strap back over his shoulder, he dragged a wellused plastic cup from his jacket pocket and lowered it to the spout, filling it to the brim.
“Forgive my rudeness . . . . Should’a served you first.” Greg took the cup and peered over its edge. Nothing swimming inside– so he pressed it to his lips. The ice-cold water felt good on his parched tongue. “Thanks,” he said, returning the cup.
“Think nothin’ of it. Nurse says you need to get some rest now.” Cap’n glanced over at the building, looked up and down the street, then bent closer to Greg’s ear. “That’s a hint that your watch is over ‘til morning.” His thick lips twitched and he spoke out the side of his mouth. “Glad to have you in the unit. Good ‘cruits are hard to come by these days.”
The sound of the red Ferrari turned both men’s heads in the direction of the sports car pulling up in front of the gym. Vinnie revved the engine before shutting it off, climbing from the car and circling onto the curb. The picture of cool, he was dressed in a pair of casual, almond-colored slacks and a collared, two-tone, short-sleeved shirt. The only evidence that he wasn’t the ultra-smooth customer he imagined himself to be was the splotchy, purplish bruise at the base of his chin.
With a beep and a flash of the lights, Vinnie dropped the keys in his pocket, adjusted his expensive sunglasses in the reflection of the tinted window, and disappeared inside Eddie’s place.
Greg took two steps toward the gym. “I think I’ll go take a look around inside.”
The rattle of an ice-filled cooler, the slap of boots on concrete, and the swish of heavy fabric behind him, and Cap’n had cut off Greg’s path. “Not without orders, Private.” His voice was stern. Greg looked up in the scowling face of the giant man. “Excuse me, sir,” he murmured. “I’d like to volunteer for the reconnaissance mission.”
Cap’n’s nod was hardly noticeable, “Report back immediately upon completion.” He stepped aside and pointed the way.
The half-block trek past the alley to the gym took scarcely 30 seconds. Greg stopped and nonchalantly leaned up against the wall, just inches away from the partially open door. The smell of swamp cooler and locker room blew past him through the narrow crack. Through the wire-encased glass, Greg could see the large ebony-skinned trainer, bent over a bench-pressing weightlifter. Then, from around the alley corner came racing two pre-teen boys, almost knocking Greg down. The lead boy jostled past and through the doorway ahead of the other.
“Hey, Ty,” he said boldly, the moment he burst into the weight room, “where’s Pops?”
The second boy waited for Greg to step aside, and strolled in, with Greg close on his heels.
Inside the near-empty gym, Ty looked up from spotting a heavy load of weights. “Don’t know, Luke. Haven’t seen him all morning. Go see if he’s still asleep.”
Luke raced down the darkened corridor to the farthest door and banged on it with his fist. Receiving no response, he went to the end of the hall and shoved open the outside metal door to see if the old pickup sat in its usual spot. Returning to the studio door, he yelled, “Hey, Pops, you in there?” No answer. He banged again, then turned the knob to peek inside.
A paltry, smoked-glass window above a narrow sink threw a faint, gray tinge on the room. Small cupboards, painted a brownish-yellow color, lined the wall on each side. A shabby fridge sat to one side. An unkempt single bed filled the opposite wall, shoved up against an antique nightstand, cluttered with books. Scores of books on the floor, piled high, lined the somber walls. The old man’s apartment wasn’t much better than the homeless shelter where he and his mother lived.
Faded and yellowing, dozens of black-and-white photos in dusty, outdated frames blanketed the walls. Luke stepped close and stared at one of the pictures, where a young champion hoisted above his head in one hand a glittering trophy; in the other, he clutched a title belt with its gaudy buckle facing the camera. A wide smile and confident eyes made the young fighter look rather cocky. The same young man stood in other photos. In some he was arm in arm with a beautiful young woman; in others he had his arm around a child. Some of the photos were of an older man with a curled mustache–definitely Eddie– together with a handsome young boy about the same age as Luke, who likewise held a trophy and a belt, and gave off a grin as wide as the crescent trim on the belt’s buckle.
“He there?” Luke heard Ty yell from the weight room up front.
Luke cast his eyes around the room one more time. Then he sauntered back into the hall and back to the mirrored weight room. “Nope, can’t find him nowhere.”
Out by the gym’s entrance, Greg lingered by the door. His casual preoccupation with the building, its metal door and alarm system, drew the attention of the only man who would care, and he was becoming more irritated by the minute.
“What do you need?” Ty finally demanded, confronting the shabby, bothersome man, hands on hips.
“Just looking for Eddie. Is he in?”
“Haven’t seen him all morning. Try back later.” Enough said, Ty, with Luke shadowing him, went back to spotting the heavy load suspended over the chest of his client. “Just two more–come on, push!”
In spite of his not being all that welcome, Greg stayed put. Luke, curious and a little bored, gave Greg the once over, then turned and bounded up the stairs. At the top of the balcony, he paused at Clint’s office before crouching on his hands and knees. He’d sneaked past the office once or twice before to check out the antique equipment in the storage room down the hall, and wondered if Eddie might be there.
“He hasn’t been here all morning,” Clint’s voice blared from beneath the closed door.
“I want the old codger dead.” Luke didn’t recognize the other voice.
“He’s an old man. If he wanted to go to the cops he’d have gone months ago. . . . Back off; I’ll find him. He’s got no place else to go.”
Meanwhile, Greg, still at his post by the front door, saw a tattered woman approaching on the sidewalk outside, with two black eyes, a cut lip and multiple bruises on her skinny arms. For such a young woman she’d already lived a hard life. She stopped at the door and took hold of its wrought-iron handle. Greg moved to help with the heavy, rusty-hinged door. The woman lowered her eyes and offered thanks, before sheepishly stepping around him. She glanced about the room, seemingly embarrassed by the nearly naked bodies of the musclebound men who grunted and preened in front of the mirrors. Then she spied the second boy who had come in with Luke–a boy who bore a striking resemblance to her. Scowling, she marched up and quietly scolded him for leaving her so far behind. The boy apologized, explaining he’d only wanted to talk with Eddie. The woman put a knuckle to her forehead and pressed, the clear sign of a headache. Pulling at her son’s shirt, she told him they’d come back another time. Greg could tell by the look in the kid’s face he wanted to argue, but reluctantly obeyed. Together they trudged out the door.
Greg followed after them. As he did, he thought of his own son, together with the questions from Wyatt, the young man from the restroom. No, he’d never beaten his wife or son. And now, yes, he missed them terribly–and wondered if they’d ever take him back.
After five different stores, six new outfits, an almost-empty wallet and one aching back, Mitch was ready to call it quits. His ten-buck wristwatch read three o’clock. The time had dragged along. He’d never been one for shopping, but knew how much Stephanie enjoyed it. With his hands clasped behind his head, he leaned back in the plush chair outside the dressing room, tapped his foot up and down, and watched Stephanie’s feet and ankles under the dressing room door.
“We need to do this more often, Stef,” he called out under the opening. “I never knew pregnant women could be so sexy.”
Stephanie peeked over the top of the door. She pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh!” She was blushing. A very pregnant woman nearby, sorting through a rack of tops, looked up with a smile. Clearly she’d overheard the compliment.
“Let ‘em look. My beautiful wife’s pregnant with twins,” he announced in a semi-loud voice.
“Mitchell Wilson, I mean it! I’ll be too embarrassed to come out.”
Mitch grinned from ear to ear and raised his eyebrows in a teasing gesture. When Stephanie finally did emerge, the woman at the rack inched over to ask about the twins. By an unlikely coincidence, she too was expecting a double delivery.
Mitch let out a sigh as the two women, instant soul mates, launched in on what he could tell would be a long discussion, comparing their pregnancies. Now look what he’d done–he and his big mouth. He settled back in the chair. It’d be at least another fifteen minutes.
Luke prowled about the high-ceilinged storage room, too afraid to venture past Clint’s office. He’d previously been the victim of the temperamental man’s stern lectures, and wasn’t about to get caught snooping where he didn’t belong–especially after hearing a conversation that included the words “cops” and “killing.”
He crept to the window. Out in the alleyway he saw his new friend walking away with his battered mother. Luke jumped quietly up and down in an attempt to catch their attention. In the process, his foot knocked a single pipe off a nearby box, which, in turn, rolled across the floor and bumped the base of a weight bar leaning against the window sill. As the top of the bar pitched in a sweeping arc across the wall, it fell onto a pile of metal weights stacked precariously in the corner. To Luke, gazing on in horror, the slow-motion scene seemed to go on forever, though it lasted only a few seconds.
The falling weights spilled and clattered onto the floor, chiming and shaking like church bells pealing during a summer thunderstorm. Then the room fell silent. Luke hunkered low and scooted across the floor, wishing a bolt of lightning would strike him dead before the two men in the next room came and found him cowering against the far wall.
Deep in the dank recesses of the building, Eddie stirred from his semi-conscious sleep. A roll of distant thunder echoed down the laundry chute, reminding him of his desperate situation. His pulse had slowed to a feeble beat. Drops of perspiration streamed from every pore. Each feverish tremor shot a dagger of pain through his punctured back.
Exerting his last bit of energy, he groped through the rubble strewn over and around his shattered legs. At last he was able to pull a short board from the debris. Raising it with his good arm, and with as little movement as possible, he began tapping the wall in a rhythmic S.O.S.
Meanwhile, several stories above, Luke’s young chest felt heavy and his stomach churned with fear. Footsteps sounded outside the door to the storage room. It opened cautiously, and in walked Clint, Vinnie right behind. “The old man has my piece,” Vinnie warned.
“He won’t shoot us. He’s a fighter, but he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body,” Clint assured. “Look, it’s only a pile of weights. He must have knocked them loose when he jumped out the window last night.”
“Don’t matter. I’m sendin’ some people to move the operation tonight. You tell me if he shows.”
“Vinnie, he’s an old man,” Clint pleaded.
“You tell me–or I’ll do you, too.” Vinnie raised his trigger finger to deal his underling a threatening poke.
With lightning-fast reflexes, Clint caught Vinnie by the arm, raised the pointed finger to his own lips, and blew, as if puffing away smoke from the tip of a gun. “Do what?” Clint’s jaw tightened. “Kill everyone that doesn’t agree? This is my town now. Get that straight, Vinnie. I know more hard cases here than you ever even met back in Jersey–so does the old man. You kill him or me, and they find out, you’ll never make it out of town alive.”
Vinnie yanked his arm free. “He’s your responsibility! They come lookin’ for me, you’re dead. . . .”
Still glaring warily at one another, both men stalked out the door and pulled it closed behind them. Luke–hardly breathing, petrified yet still alive, and still hugging the wall on the far side of the room–wished he hadn’t heard what he’d just heard. He’d give anything to be far away just then, away from the gym, away from it all. Easing himself to his feet, he wondered what the tapping sound was that seemed to vibrate up through the walls.
Mitch and Stephanie started for home. Beaming with joy at her selections, she patted him on the thigh. “You were a good sport to come today.”
“My pleasure. What do you say we go see Grandpa. We haven’t even told him about our babies.”
“Great. I was thinking the same thing. If we look hungry enough, maybe he’ll make us some of his ‘junkyard dog stew’ for supper.”
Mitch smiled, remembering Stephanie’s first visit to the junkyard. For a long time he’d been careful to keep her away, afraid the upperclass girl would find out where he came from and blow him off, a scared cat running from the rowdy junkyard dog. She’d asked dozens of times to meet this infamous grandpa of his. Ashamed more of where he lived than of the grouchy old man, he’d asked Grandpa several times to come to a restaurant and meet her. Grandpa had always refused. “If she’s scared off see’n who you are and who I am,” he’d say, “she ain’t worth a pile a dog crap anyway.”
The night she finally met the cantankerous old fellow was a near disaster. In a weak moment, Mitch had promised Stephanie they’d swing by and meet him after a movie. Even though he’d had second thoughts later that night, she’d held him to his promise.
When they pulled up to the single-bedroom trailer, parked on blocks and situated behind the run-down service station, Mitch studied her face. She was aware of his trepidation and the embarrassment he might feel, and had carefully weighed her words. “It can’t be as bad as you make it out to be.” Mitch was afraid that, indeed, it was.
He slithered through the doorway first, hoping to shield his steady girl from any particularly unseemly spectacle. But it was not to be. Grandpa was seated on his easy chair, his feet propped up on a greasy footrest. Before he had seen Stephanie, he blurted out, “Hell’s bells, boy, you home so early? What’s ‘a matter, had a spat with the royalty?”
He’d always resented his son for being ashamed of where he came from, and now his grandson was doing the same thing. Somehow he’d always assumed he could blame the problem on their friends rather than his own flesh and blood.
“No . . . Pa,” Mitch had stammered, “I–I brought her to meet you.”
The old man was so embarrassed by his statement, he couldn’t even apologize. Stephanie, sensing the silent arrows of anger radiating between the men, politely introduced herself. She tried breaking the tension by inquiring what smelled so good. “Stew,” the old man had said, still stunned by the exchange. Then he’d wiggled the toothpick in his teeth and fled the room to fetch them both a bowl of the homemade concoction.
Stephanie found the stew to be delicious, that is until Mitch went into the other room to put the empty bowls in the sink. Again trying to be polite, Stephanie had remarked, “The stew was very good,” and then asked, “What kind of meat did you use?”
“Junkyard dog,” Grandpa had exclaimed in his typically gruff way.
Knowing he was trying to push her buttons, Stephanie had responded, “Well, sir, that’s the best damn junkyard dog I ever ate!”
The gruff response was just what the old man needed to put away his prejudice. Boisterous laughter met Mitch upon his return. Stephanie’s howls were passionate and genuine; Grandpa’s crotchety old face was glowing. Before long, they were all laughing at Grandpa’s stories about Mitch when he was little. Some of the tales were rather mortifying–to Mitch, at least: others were relatively tame. One story told how the stew’s name originated. When Mitch was three, one of Grandpa’s guard dogs he kept on the lot had disappeared. The old hound–named Butch, as Grandpa remembered it–had probably gone out to a far corner of the yard, laid down and died. But little Mitch was too smart for that. Several times he’d been out hunting with Grandpa, and he knew where meat came from: it came from animals. So, while studying the stew they were eating that night, he was sure it was from that old missing dog. Needless to say, the “junkyard dog stew ” label stuck.
At the end of that first visit, Grandpa had given Mitch a slap on the back and said, “Mighty fine woman, boy. You hang on to her–she just might help you get outta this old junkyard.”
Now, years later, they were once more on their way to see him. Mitch turned to his bride and put his hand on her thigh. “Mighty fine woman,” he chuckled.
Luke waited until he was sure Clint had left the building and the Ferrari had rumbled from the curb before making his way back downstairs. According to Clint’s conversation, Eddie had jumped out the window. Nurse’ll know where he is, thought the boy as he raced to the alley.
Eddie stopped tapping and drifted back into a mind-numbing stupor. Trying to escape the pain, he once again drifted into the past–to better days, to his beautiful bride sitting in the rocking chair in front of a fireplace, her curly hair flowing down her bosom to where she held their new baby girl, nursing at her mother’s breast.
“You can do it,” were some of the last words she ever said to him. “It doesn’t matter how bad they try to scare you. . . . You do your best to bring that belt home, but, win or lose, make sure you come home with your integrity intact.” Afterwards, she had given him a tender kiss and a soft pat on the rear. He’d turned to leave, then wheeled back and bent down to kiss the velvety forehead of their newborn.
This calming vision faded, and his mind jumped ahead to one of his worst days, to the day when his appendix had burst. He’d won the title that day, over sixty years earlier. He’d refused to take a fall, ignoring the threats of a Chicago crime boss not willing to lose a bet. The police had met him in the locker room after the win, solemn-faced, heads lowered. Two of their best officers, veterans who’d been left to guard Eddie’s wife and daughter, had taken the fall for that title round. Somehow the infant daughter had survived.
“Nurse, you in there?” Luke hollered from near the power-box.Greg sat up from his restless nap. The young voice seemed a faint echo of the night before.
“Nurse, it’s Luke–Eddie’s friend.”
Greg pulled back the carpet, peering squinty-eyed into the alley. “She’s not here.”
“Where is she? Has she seen Pops? I been lookin’ for him.” Luke knew of Nurse and Eddie’s long friendship, that Eddie had taken rolls of tape and other food and medical items to her over the last few months. If Eddie was hurt by the fall, she’d know where he was.
“Isn’t he inside?”
Luke recognized Greg as the man from the doorway. “You one of Nurse’s friends?”
Greg inched from the concrete shelter. “She calls me Sunny. . . .”
An hour north of Vegas, Mitch pulled the car off the freeway and down a gravel road to a bridge. A few blocks further, the road deadended into a cluttered, seemingly abandoned service station piled high with wrecked vehicles and car parts. Five angry dogs–teeth bared, tails straight up in the air, yelps piercing the wind–lit out from the open door of the station. When they reached the little Ford, they greeted it in their customary way, viciously attacking the vehicle’s front tires.
Without hesitation, Mitch stepped out and began shouting out names like a roll call to the mass of teeth and fur. The untrained mob of mongrel flesh turned from the tires like a frantic pack of hungry wolves and made for Mitch, who knelt to greet his furry friends. Each dog, in turn, rank and order, either turned belly-up for a good rubdown, or jumped to lick the face of their youthful, more spirited master.
Stephanie remained behind closed doors as Mitch turned, the dogs trailing him, barking excitedly, and walked inside and closed the station door.
A surly voice came from the station. “Who in tarnation’s harassin’ my dogs?”
“The only man who loves ‘em more than you,” Mitch called out.
There was a chuckle, followed by, “After three weeks, you better not be comin’ ‘round here ‘less you brought Stef with you, boy.” A tall, lean man with bushy eyebrows, a two-day growth of white whiskers and a full head of white hair emerged from the back room, wiping his rough, oily hands with a soiled rag.
“I’ll take her back, if you’re going to be an ol’ grouch,” Mitch retorted, spreading his arms wide. The men embraced. Mitch hugged the old man tight, despite the risk of grease from his coveralls.
The old man unzipped the coveralls and struggled to pull them from his shoulders. “Gimme a hand. Don’t want to get ‘er dirty.”
With a growl from their elderly master, the mongrels were ordered to stay inside the station, away from Mitch’s young bride with her terrible fear of dogs–especially large, savage ones. Grandpa Wilson, old and stiff from three-quarters-of-a-century’s hard work, limped with a quickened pace toward his one-and-only favorite granddaughter-in-law. Stephanie popped the lock and climbed from the car.
“Land sakes, you beautiful girl,” exclaimed Grandpa Wilson, reaching out to her take her in his arms. Stephanie noticed his hug was a little more tender than usual. “Been thinkin’ about you all week, wonderin’ when you’d drag this man of yours up here to see me. Even put a pot o’ junkyard dog on this mornin’, hopin’ you’d come.”
“Grandpa, we missed you. How are you feeling?”
“For cryin’ out loud, we don’t wanna talk about me. Tell me about the little one.” One arm still wrapped around her shoulder, he circled the forefinger of his other hand in front of Stephanie’s not-yet-distended belly and escorted her toward the trailer.
Stephanie flashed Mitch a questioning glance over her shoulder. He shrugged and wiped his hands together as if to cleanse himself of all responsibility.
“How did you know I’m pregnant?” Stephanie asked.
“My stars, girl, a man who can’t see that glow hoverin’ over a woman as beautiful and happy about it as you, got to be downright blind. Now, come take off your shoes. Been doin’ a bit a’ readyin’ for the new arrival.”
The three of them climbed the wooden steps to the trailer porch and slipped their shoes off outside the door. Mitch looked on in amazement. Stephanie gasped, “It’s beautiful, Grandpa.”
The inside of the home had been completely refurbished. New carpet, a bright coat of new paint, brand-new furniture throughout. “Been twenty-two years since we had a little one runnin’ around the place. Figured it was time to fix ‘er up for my first great-grandchild. Don’t want ‘im playing in the grease now, do we?”
Stephanie’s eyes began to tear up. “That’s so thoughtful. . . .”
“Glory be, girl, you can’t be goin’ off cryin’, now, or you’ll make an old man cry.” Grandpa gently took Stephanie by the hand.
Mitch cleared his throat. “You know, Grandpa, we’ve got some doubly good news.” Struggling to contain his own emotions, he paused. This was a magical moment, one to remember. “We’re having twins–a boy and a girl.”
Grandpa threw up his hands. “Now you done it,” his voice quavered. “. . . You . . . the four a’you–you gone and made me cry.” Still holding onto Stephanie’s hand, he reached up with his opposite sleeve and wiped his eyes. “Haven’t got a clue what’s happenin’ to me . . . in my old age. Must be gettin’ soft or somethin’.”
Stephanie couldn’t help but sob between laughs. “M–Maybe you’re pregnant!”
The old man waved Mitch close and embraced them both. This truly was heaven on earth. “I think it just took me seventy-five years to figure out what’s most important in life,” he smiled. “And they’re right here in my arms.”