Fishermen's Court Read online

  Fuck, what have I just done?

  Chapter 2

  “Drink up, Mr. Carroll,” says Storm Trooper, striding jauntily back into the room.

  He has left me alone with Chokehold for a long while, to give the pills time to work their magic and so that he can confer around my computer with thug number three. In his absence, Choke has been dutifully nudging my arm every minute or two, and I’ve been taking measured sips of vodka, but now Trooper Dan seems eager to move my demise along at a brisker pace.

  “Hurry, hurry, faster,” he says, rapping the plastic Svedka bottle with his latexed knuckles. “We don’t have all day. Things to do, Mr. Carroll, things to do.”

  Things to do.

  For some reason, these three simple words snap me out of the fog of numbness I’ve drifted into. I will never, ever, ever have another thing to do, I realize. My thing-doing days are behind me. The comprehension that the world will really and truly go on without me blows through me like a polar wind.

  Jesus, fuck, no! I will never eat another garlic, artichoke, and mushroom pizza from The Barnacle. I will never see another pretty woman in a summer dress. I will never dab paint on another canvas. I will never drink another pint of Arrogant Bastard Ale on the outdoor deck of Pete’s Lagoon on Musqasset Island with my best friend Miles.

  I will never again set foot on Musqasset Island, the only place on Earth where I was ever genuinely happyish. I will never again sit on the rocks at Mussel Cove with Jeannie, watching the seals bob in the waves, laughing so hard I feel sick.

  I will never again make love to Jeannie. (Full disclosure, that customer left the barber shop years ago.)

  My thoughts cluster surprisingly around Jeannie, whom I haven’t seen in four years. Why did I let her go so easily? Why didn’t I fight harder? What trivial principle had I been trying to prove? My soul for a do-over! Until this moment, I didn’t even realize I wanted one.

  I think, too, of all the things I have never experienced—thanks to pissed-away years of playing the tortured artist—and now never will. I will never have a child, never visit the Scottish Highlands, never master “Richland Woman Blues” on the guitar, never have my own gallery showing.

  A hot blade of longing stabs my heart. Longing for the life I once held in my hands and failed to embrace, longing for the life I will never have.

  Suddenly all my “struggles” of the past year—the half-assed suicide attempt, the endless search for “the right therapist,” the maudlin boozing—unmask themselves as nothing more than drama. Posturing. I realize I haven’t really been struggling with depression. (I’ve seen what a monster real depression can be.) No, what I’ve been struggling with is disillusionment. Clinical disappointment.

  What a child, what an ungrateful tool.

  Troop taps the vodka bottle again. I drink.

  In my mind I replay all the decisions and circumstances that brought me to this place, and see the truth of my recent life with the crystalline insight of the soon-to-be-dead.

  About four years ago, I left my beloved Musqasset Island to move back home to miserable Wentworth, Massachusetts, from whence I hail. Ostensibly, I made the move to care for my mother who had stage IV bladder cancer, but really I was just escaping a situation on the island that was too taxing for my poor, pain-averse psyche to handle. The six months Mom was given to live turned into three years, which I “endured” with outward valor, secretly grateful for the excuse it gave me not to make any affirmative choices in my own life.

  Then Mom died, about a year ago, and I slipped into a serious downward spiral. Not because I was traumatized by her death, but because, upon being stripped of my “noble caregiver” role, I was suddenly faced with the void of a life utterly bereft of purpose. Storm Trooper dismissed my previous suicide attempt as a cry for help. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. And not just about the overdose itself, about all of it. All my drama and self-flagellating. It was all a cry for attention, for pity. But from whom?

  God? Tell me that’s not the game I’ve been playing.

  A powerful realization comes bubbling up from the depths of my awareness like a beach ball that’s been stuffed under murky water:

  I do not want to die.

  Do not. Do not. Do not. Do not. Do not.

  I want to live. I desperately, passionately, wholeheartedly want to live. No more fucking around. I have been cured of “suicidal ideation” for life. I want another crack at this thing.

  True, I have a belly full of pills and am strapped to a chair under the glaring eye of a psycho killer, but a strong instinct rises up within me: my time’s not up yet. Can’t be. No. No.

  But what are my options here? Seriously.

  Try to talk my way out of it? Beg for sympathy? Not a chance. Bargain?

  “What do you guys want?” I venture, my words slurring a tad. “What can I give you?”

  Trooper Dan, his eyes obscured by the shaded plastic of the mask’s eyeholes, leans over me and whispers, “What we want, Mr. Carroll, is for you to die so that we can get to Applebee’s before happy hour ends. Sláinte!”

  He waits till I take an obedient swig of vodka and then backs away.

  I hear the clacking of the keyboard in the den again. “Whatever you’re looking for on my computer, I’ll tell you where to find it. Then you can let me call 911 and be on your way. I haven’t seen any of your faces.”

  Trooper Dan doesn’t even dignify that one with a response. So much for bargaining.

  My lower legs are free, and so are my forearms. What if I Jackie Chan them? Spring to my feet and whip the chair legs around in a mad frenzy. Knock them both down. Then use my free hands to finish them off.

  Sure.

  What other options do I have? Only one, really. Make them think I’m already dead. Well, not dead. Faking dead is impossible when you’re under the microscope, as I am. But maybe I can fake unconscious-to-the-point-of-no-return.

  If I can convince them I’m down for the count before I actually am, maybe they’ll leave while I’m still alive and I can call 911. It’s not much, but it’s all I got.

  “Drink,” says Storm Trooper.

  I take another swig of booze and begin to map out my new strategy.

  If I am going to sell the ultimate possum ploy—and survive it—I need to keep a mental edge. Not easy to do when you’ve just swallowed two hundred benzos in a lethal combo and you’re drinking straight vodka by the mouthful. My challenge will be to outrace the real effects of the drugs with my faked performance. Can o’ corn. Heh.

  How much time do I have? I still seem to be sharp enough at the moment, but it’s hard to judge. I try reciting the alphabet backwards. In my mind I say, Z... W... X... Y... A screw-up right out of the starting gate, not good. Z... Y... X... W... um... V... um... No clue what comes next.

  Crap, I’m already mentally compromised.

  I figure I probably have fifteen minutes, tops, before I become so foggy I sink into the chemical stupor that will end my life.

  That means I have, at most, ten minutes to convince my captors I have slipped into terminal unconsciousness. I’ve got to get this show on the road. No sooner does this thought occur than I feel the tug of gravity yanking at my chin. Real sleep is hooking its nails in me. I need a strategy, fast. Something unexpected.

  Instinct takes over. When Storm Trooper steps toward me to tap the vodka bottle again, I burst into a fit of laughter. It’s so sudden and authentic, it takes me by surprise almost as much as it does Troop. I bray laughter till I’m gasping for air.

  “I’ll bite. What’s so funny, Mr. Carroll?”

  “You! With your little mask and your lopper. Taking yourself so
seriously.” I know I’m skating on thin ice to mock this guy, but I want him to think I’m losing it, throwing caution to the wind. “And the funny part is...” I break into whoops of laughter again. “The funny part is... We’re on the same side! We both want the same thing. We both want this loser dead. I’ve been trying to get this job done for a year, but I always chicken out. All I needed was a little push. I didn’t expect it to come from a Jedi stormtrooper, but fuck it, I’ll take it.”

  With a big, forced smile on my face, I steer the bottle toward my mouth and begin swigging hungrily from it, staring defiantly at Troop. I want him to think I have not only surrendered to my fate but am welcoming it with open arms—that I just want to end things fast and go out drunk. Speed-drinking, I hope, will provide a credible reason for my passing out faster than expected. Of course, by doing this, I run the risk of actually passing out—or succumbing to alcohol poisoning. But I’m not in an ideal-world scenario here.

  I drink manically for a solid minute or two, watching the bottle’s contents go down by an inch and a half. I’m well past sloshed by now, but my “second awareness”—something I learned to harness years ago during my meditating period—has kicked in. A deeper part of me remains detached and watchful. I need to ride with that part. Zen my way through the chemical haze.

  A burp escapes my belly. With a mock-serious face, I pronounce, “Hints of sweetness with a pleasingly yeasty body and a peppery finish.” I dissolve into fits of giggles again.

  Storm Trooper’s red-bearded mouth curls into a tiny smile below his mask. “Might as well go out laughing, eh, Mr. Carroll?”

  “With a whimper, not a bang,” I agree, toasting him with the bottle. “I mean with a bang, not a wimple. Ha, ha, wimple!”

  I sit up rod-straight as if I’ve suddenly remembered something urgent. I make a horrified face and let the bottle slip from my hand. Trooper Dan catches it. I look at him as if seeing him for the first time and say with deadening mouth muscles, “I guh go. I guh go.”

  I pretend to try to rise, to make my exit. As I do, I feel a strong pull from below, as if my arms are being dragged down by a puppeteer hiding beneath the floor. The drugs in my system are making another play for me even as I’m trying to fake the same effect.

  I take a panicked look all around me, breathing hard, pretending I have no idea where I am. As if trying to make a frantic burst for the door, I push off with my right leg, causing the chair to topple to the left.

  My head strikes the plastic-sheeted floor and bounces hard, once. My eyes roll up in their sockets, and my eyelids shut.

  I am officially down for the count. Win or lose.

  Silence reigns as my captors and I remain motionless.

  I can hear their breathing. Studying me for signs of consciousness.

  I am turnip, watch me vedge.

  Time flattens into eternity. Not a word from my captors. Not a twitch from me.

  At some point, one of the men crouches and flicks my cheek. I don’t react.

  More wordless breathing.

  A hand shakes me by the shoulder. I let my body wobble liquidly. I allow my breath to become shallow, labored, ragged.

  I don’t know how long I lie there like that. Clock-time no longer exists.

  At one point, my brain literally blinks out, like a faulty light bulb, then blinks back on again. Shit. I am minutes away from real and permanent turnip-hood.

  I feel the warm breath of one of the men as he moves his face within inches of mine. What is he going to do, kiss me? ...Is he?

  “That was an inspiring performance, Mr. Carroll,” Troop whispers in my ear. My heart flips like a dying fish. “But you don’t fool me. I know you’re fully conscious. And so here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to position the lopper blades on your nose.”

  I feel the brush of sharpened metal on either side of my nose. My Zen state retreats. I must use all my willpower not to flinch.

  “When I count to three, you will open your eyes. If you fail to do so, I will lop the nose off your face. One...”

  Troop is only testing me. Has to be. I’m betting my nose on it.

  “Two... Three...”

  Troop pauses for a moment and does nothing.

  I do nothing.

  The lopper blades tighten ever so slowly against my nose. I do not throw my eyes open and beg for mercy. I, rutabaga.

  The blades halt without breaking the skin. They stay poised in that position, pinching my nose flesh, for what seems like a month. Then Storm Trooper opens the blades, withdraws the lopper, and stands up, his knee cartilage crackling again.

  “He’s gone,” he says to his partner. “If not, he would have cracked.”

  My heart leaps with crazy hope.

  Chokehold whips the plastic sheet out from under me like a magician doing the tablecloth trick. He starts cutting my chest strap with a knife. Yes! They’re getting ready to leave. And if this is to look like a suicide, they can’t leave plastic sheeting on the floor and me strapped to a chair. Choke lifts my body and cradles it a foot or so above the floor as he finishes cutting the binding fabric. Then he releases me and lets me drop, tossing the chair aside.

  Whap! I hit the floor like a bag of grapefruit. My cheekbone sings out in pain, but I think I have remained limp. I don’t think I have tensed or winced.

  “All set here,” Choke reports to Troop. His first spoken words. What’s that accent? No “r” at the end of “here.” Boston? Brooklyn? I would need to hear more.

  “Good,” says Trooper Dan in his high, almost-prissy voice. Then he utters the words that crush my hope like a sat-on birthday cake. “We’ll give it another ten minutes to be sure he doesn’t puke or pull any surprises, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Ten minutes? No way can I hold onto consciousness that long. As if to confirm my fears, I feel a wave of heaviness spread through my body from the base of my spine outward. My brain blinks off again.

  The opening bars of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” ring out in an angelic female soprano. For an absurd moment I think I’ve died and gone to Catholic-school heaven. Then I realize it’s a ring tone. Storm Trooper steps out of the room to take the call in private.

  Twenty seconds later he returns. “Time to go,” he says to his partners. “Let’s do a quick clean-up, grab our stuff, then we’re out of here. Bim bam bom.”

  I hear Chokehold bunch up the plastic sheeting. Three sets of footsteps begin clomping through the house, one heavy, one light, one medium. The three bears. I hear someone fill a bucket in the laundry room and begin cleaning up the spilled beer and broken glass in the entry hall with a broom and mop.

  Faster, I silently urge the men as my brain fights to avoid blinking out once again. The next time it blinks may be the last. My chances of being able to walk out of here on my own two feet are dimming by the minute.

  The downstairs toilet flushes. I hear other cleaning-up noises and the sound of the mop being rinsed and returned to its place.

  For fuck’s sake, get a move on.

  I feel a sharp pain in my gut. Hmm, has a foot just kicked my stomach? Yes! Chokehold checking on me one last time. The only reason I didn’t react is that my brain had zonked out again. It is the kick that revives me and, in a brilliant twist of irony, probably saves my life.

  Several quiet seconds pass. What now? I hear Troop say, “Finis. Let him die in peace.” He drops the quarter-full plastic vodka bottle on the floor near me. And with that, the three home invaders exit by the back door.

  A finger of the spilled liquid coldly touches my arm.

  I force myself to wait till I hear the distant sounds of car doors closing and a vehicle driving away
before opening my eyes.

  I try to sit up and find my body now weighs a pleasant five hundred pounds. After three failed attempts, I manage to heft myself to a sitting position. I wait for my mental fog to ebb a bit, then grab the edge of the table, pulling myself to a stand. I notice the empty pill vials. Somehow I summon the presence of mind to stick them in my pocket so the ER staff—if I can make it to the hospital—will know what I OD’d on.

  The mad puppeteer beneath the floor is pulling my limbs down with all his might.

  I start toward the wall phone, then remember I stopped paying for the landline after Mom died. I need to use my cell. But where is it?

  Chokehold took it from me. I’ll need to get to a neighbor’s phone.

  I lumber toward the front of the house, feeling as if I have twenty-pound weights strapped to my ankles. To get to the door I must pass through the den/office, which now seems the length of a football field. As I plod across the old wooden floor, my heavy footfalls jiggle the mouse on my computer desk, causing the screen to awaken.

  A Microsoft Word document pops open. This grabs my attention, even through the mental fog. I haven’t used Word in over a week.

  I stare fuzzily at the screen. I need to be on my way, but I also want to know what these guys were looking for on my computer. And what they found. Stepping closer to the desk, I try to read the title of the document, but the letters are swimming around and doubling up in my vision. They’ve become animated, abstract symbols. Cuneiform in motion.

  With all the concentration I can muster, I force my vision to lock in on the document’s heading, which is in bold fourteen-point font. It reads, “Finnian Carroll’s Absolutely Final (This Time I Mean It) and Incontestable Suicide Note and Last Confession.”

  What? Sounds like something I would write, but...

  But I didn’t write it. Of that I am certain, even in my massively compromised state.

  Damn. Those guys weren’t trying to take something from my computer, they were planting something on it.