Close Call

(some possibly offensive language)

Close Call

The elevator doors opened. Mark watched as the four people he loved and trusted with his life crowded into the empty car and held the doors open for him. “Come on Mark, we need to celebrate.”

He stopped half-way there, fake patted his pockets. “Go on, okay? I forgot something. I’ll be right behind you.”

They booed him as the elevator doors closed.

Back in the office, he didn’t turn on the overhead lights but allowed the pale beam of his desk lamp to lead him to the safe. After dialing the combination and opening the safe, he did what he promised he would do and stuffed it into his ancient leather briefcase.

Leaving the evidence on the floor, he meandered back to his desk, dropped like a stone into his lucky chair, and sighed his disgust at himself. From the bottom drawer he removed the silver flask his ex-wife gave him one Christmas and took a long pull. He grimaced.

The phone on the outer desk rang with a loud, tinny squeal in the silence. 

“Nobody’s here, sucker,” he shouted out. “Somebody just wiped them out.” Maybe the liquor was working. To confirm it, he took another swig, then another, made a face again, and re-capped the flask. 

They’d wonder what was keeping him. They’d be saying, “Where’s Mark?” They’d want him there with them to celebrate their best year ever. All those months of struggle, and finally some success. A reason to party.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Already? No, not them. His sister. “Hi, what’s up?”

“’What’s up?’” Ellen said. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Where are you, Mark?” She sounded panicky. He could hear the drone of the TV in the background. A game of some kind. Being watched by probably the world’s most disappointing brother-in-law.

“I’m at the office, Ellen. Just leaving, in fact. I had to wait until everyone was gone. You knew that.”

She lowered her voice. “And then?”

He turned in his chair, the springs squeaking in protest. Out the window, snow had begun in earnest. “And then,” he said, unable to keep the ire from his voice, “I’ll be on my way. Flight’s at seven, so—” 

“When do you meet them?” She must have walked away from the TV.

“Noon. Around noon. Nothing final yet, but tentatively.” Feeling queasy, he swung back around so he was facing away from the window. Always that little bit of acrophobia, even after three years on the eighteenth floor. “They’ll contact me.”

“What if you aren’t there?”

“How can you ask me that? I’ve done everything else you asked—why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

“I’m worried about you, is all. I know you’re uncomfortable—”

“Uncomfortable? That’s rich.” Pulse elevated, feeling flushed, he stood up and shrugged out of his coat. He threw it in the general direction of the chair and watched it fall to the floor. Somewhere in the deep bowels of the building he heard an elevator ding. Maybe one of them decided to come back and get him. Not yet—too soon. They’d be into their first round. He sat back down and put his feet on the desk, trying to fool his body into relaxing. Fat chance.

Ellen had been talking, and he caught the last of it. “. . . never meant for you to compromise . . .”

“Jesus, Ellen. You presented this whole thing to me as a last resort. My nephew’s life was in my hands. ‘No other way,’ you said. Everything rested on my willingness to ‘compromise’ my values, my career, my relationships with my partners, my freedom, even. And now you’re worried about how I feel? Little late for that, isn’t it?”

The phone went dead.

He sighed. His feet hit the floor. He uncapped the flask and drained it. Hoping for oblivion, knowing it wouldn’t come. What was it his father had said? “Life is hard and then you die.” Not that the old man had made it up, but he sure lived it. He drove drunk right into the back of an eighteen-wheeler and killed their mother. Took Pops a year, but on the anniversary of her death, he checked out, too. Ellen, herself barely out of adolescence, took over the care and feeding of her eleven-year-old brother. Who hadn’t made it easy for her. And who owed her his life.

He tossed the flask into the trash basket as his phone buzzed. Ellen again. He pressed “end call.” No more. Not tonight. She’d probably made some excuse to leave the apartment so she could talk without Dickhead hearing her. 

He stood up and held onto the desk to steady himself before he reached down to grab his coat. He struggled to stuff his arm through the inside-out sleeve. He wanted to throw it on the floor and stomp on it. His phone buzzed again. This time, Jack. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. What the hell you doin’ buddy? We’re all here getting wasted. Simon and Don are arm wrestling, if you can belived that. Midge is chatting up some lowlife, and the man of the hour is M.I.A. You're needed here. Tell me you’re on your way.” Voices and music in the background, but muffled. Jack must’ve walked outside. Standing in the snow, looking down the block for his best friend who was about to let him down in the most heinous way. 

Couldn’t remember a time when Jack wasn’t there, looking out for him, trusting him without question. God, this was going to hurt so bad. “I am, Jack. Coming right now.” He took a deep breath, hoping Jack wouldn’t hear the sob in his voice. “I promise.”

“You sure? It’s only five blocks, and if you’re shittin’ me, I’ll march over there and drag you—”

“No way, Jackie.” Coat on, briefcase in hand, he patted his pockets for his keys. He would go down the elevator to the parking garage, get in his car and head to the airport. “I’m walking out the door right now.”

“You better be. I’m not celebrating without you.”

Something in his friend’s voice broke Mark's resolve. “Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah?” Jack sounded so hopeful.

But Mark couldn’t do it. “Nothing.”

“No, no, no. You don’t get away with that. Fuck that ‘nothing’ shit. You were gonna ask me something–something serious. I know that tone. What was it?”

“I was just going to tell you—” a sob caught in his throat.

“Mark? What the hell, man? You alright?”

“I—no, I’m not alright, actually. It’s just that I’ve done something. Something wrong. I don’t deserve—” he choked up again and couldn’t talk.

“Wrong? You? No way I believe that, man.”

“But it’s true.” Tears were running down his face. He tasted salt.

“Listen, man, there’s nothing you could’ve done that bad. Don’t tell me. I know you.”

“You’re wrong. This is worse than bad.” He was still patting his pockets for his keys. Maybe he left them on the desk. “This is ‘I’ve gotta leave town’ bad. My sister—”

“Ellen? Did that prick she’s married to have anything to do with it?”

“No. He’s too dumb to—no, it’s her kid. He got himself into trouble—"

“Come on, Mark. Dante? Dante’s been an inch away from trouble his whole life. You know it. You told me two years ago—”

“I know, Jack, but it’s Ellen, man. I’d’ve been in juvie myself if not for her. Dante’s all she cares about, and he’s crossed the wrong people. The unforgiving kind.” He took another deep breath. The keys were in his jacket pocket. There all along. “I’m not gonna make it to the party, Jack.”

“Nope. That’s not gonna happen. Whatever kind of hot mess Dante’s gotten into, we can fix it, okay? You know we can. Haven’t we always had each other’s backs? Nothing we can’t do together, right?”

Mark’s shoulders slumped. “Listen, Jack.” He looked down at his left hand and noticed, again, the absence of his wedding ring. At least he wouldn’t have to drag her into his mess. “I’m on my own with this one, and I’m not about to bring you down, too.”

“What are you saying?” Jack’s voice raised. The door of the bar must have opened because revelers’ voices threatened to drown Jack out.

“I’m saying I gotta get outta Dodge. Tonight. I don’t think I can come back. Ever. There’ll be a mess to clean up here, and my name will be mud—for a long time.” His throat closed up, and he couldn’t finish.

The line went dead. Jack never charged his phone, so he was probably standing in front of the bar cursing, maybe trying to borrow some stranger’s phone. Just as well. Time to get moving.

Jack grabbed the briefcase and made his final trip to the elevator. He pressed “G” and rode down to the garage listening to Muzak’s version of Sinatra’s “My Way.” His phone again. Ellen. “I’m leaving right now, Sis. Headed to O’Hare. I can wait there—”

“No! Stop! Don’t do it. I mean it. It’s over. Are you listening?”

“What the hell?”

“He turned himself in. Dante did.”

“To the police?”

“Yes. It’s over. I promise. Return the money. You still can, can’t you?”

“What made him—”

“You. When I told him what you were willing to do—when he finally understood what it would mean—“ She was crying. “Tell me you can stop this, please.”

“I—of course—”

The elevator doors opened. His car was the only one in the garage, and Jack was leaning against it, coatless, rubbing his arms for warmth. Mark motioned for Jack to join him in the elevator, and they rode back up to eighteen together. Breathing in pourbon fumes, Mark tried to share his coat with his friend. 

After he finished undoing what he had almost done, they stood in front of the elevator watching the numbers count up as the car came for them.

Jack asked, “Are you ever gonna tell me?”

Mark laughed. It felt so good to laugh. “Sure. But not now.”

The elevator doors opened.