Smoked

by Eli Lyons

“I’m giving you a second chance, Harvey. I’m a decent human being, I believe in second chances,” said the man in the upholstered chair, cigar smoke curling from his lips

“I just want it back, okay? Just get it back to me. You can do that, right?” asked the man. Smoke saturated the small room.

“Y-yeah, p-positive.” Harvey had a stutter.

“Well are you positive, or are you sure?” The whole room resonated with the pungent odor.

“I’m s-sure,” said Harvey. The man sat forwards and stared into Harvey’s eyes.

“Good. Now get out of here,” said the man, blowing more acrid smoke in Harvey’s direction.

Harvey moved towards the door by which he had entered. He laid a clammy hand on the cool brass knob.

“Hey! Harvey! Don’t let me down.”

“S-s-sure t-thing.”

* * *

“I’m freezing my balls off here, can we go yet?”

Tommy shoved his hands in his armpits, but the cold still seeped through. He was dressed in black a canvas jacket over a red Cubs hoodie.

“Shut up, Tommy,” replied Frank.

They sat in a dark grey ’90 Mercedes. Frigid air floated towards them from the river. The thin metal walls provided them little comfort against the cold night.

“Answer my question,” said Tommy.

“We’re stayin till were leavin,” replied Frank.

“Yeah sure, sure, that’s fine, but when are we leaving?”

“When were done fuckin stayin! Shut the fuck up!”

Frank wore a wool pea coat over a navy blazer. His hands were wrapped in thin, black leather gloves.

“Whyah gotta be so mean all the time Frank? You have a woman in your life?”

Frank sat in the driver’s seat with his gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets. He watched his breath condense in the cold, bitter air.

“I asked you if you—”

“Do you want me to break your fingers, Tommy? Would you like that?”

Tommy was silent for a moment. He knew Frank. He knew that if he waited a moment, Frank would calm down. He reached for the heater but Frank slapped his hand away. He looked at Frank, who was still starring straight ahead. Tommy moved his hand slowly towards the dashboard, trying to sneak past Frank’s peripheral vision.

Frank grabbed Tommy’s hand.

“Ha-ha! You caught me!”

Frank tightened his grip.

“Hah—ow, Frank! Stop, ow shit!

Frank finally turned his head. He reached out with his other gloved hand and grabbed Tommy’s pinky.

“Let! Fucking! Go!” Tommy said, grunting between each syllable while trying to wriggle his hand out of Franks grip. Frank said nothing.

Frank began to bend Tommy’s pinky backwards, slowly.

“Fraaaannkk!! Awwwfuuckinsstop!! Don’t fuckin do it maaannnnnn!” Tommy’s other hand was trying desperately to free its comrade. He could feel the muscles in his pinky beginning to tear. One of the back doors opened. A man in a black, two piece, single breasted suit entered the backseat. He carried a brown paper bag with him.

“Hey Frank, hey Tomm—hey quit fuckin around!” Jack said, somewhat annoyed, from the back of the car.

Frank let go of Tommy’s hand.

“Jesus and Mary fuckin Christ, Frank! You crazy piece of shit!” yelled Tommy, rubbing his hand.

“Hello, Jack,” said Frank.

“What’s up Jack?” asked Tommy.

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” replied Jack as he handed Frank the bag. “Whadya think, Frank?”

“Yeah, this is good. Thanks Jack,” said Frank, reaching into his jacket pocket. His gloved fingers wrapped around the cold steel of a hand gun.

* * *

Harvey shoved his hands immediately into his pockets as he left the building. The cold bit his unprotected cheeks. He walked up to an old, black Volvo and got into the driver’s seat. The engine whinnied and died as he turned the key. The river in front of him was icy black.

“Come on…come on…” he muttered to himself.

Despite his attempts, the engine would not start.

“Piece of crap…”

Harvey climbed out of the front seat and walked to the front of the car. The hood was frozen shut.

“God damnit!” he said, kicking the front tire. Not knowing what to do, Harvey sat back down in the driver’s seat. This would not do. He had to get back to the apartment and get the briefcase. He pictured it in his mind- it sat beneath the bathroom sink, tucked behind bottles of detergent. He rose from the car, stuffed his hands in his pockets and began walking. The streetlamps cast their warm halogen glow on Harvey, as well as the dark grey Mercedes parked across the street.

* * *

“Here,” said Frank, “you’ll need this,” and pulled a black pistol out of his jacket. Jack’s eyes widened for a split second, but he immediately hid his fear. Frank grabbed the tall can of Bud from the brown paper bag.

“My favorite…how much do I owe you?” asked Frank.

“Don’t worry about it,” replied Jack.

Frank cracked the beer and drank it despite the freezing temperature outside. Tommy folded his arms, shivered, and looked out the window.

“Hey! Hey guys! Isn’t that him?” cried Tommy, excitedly. He put one of his hands on the dash and the other on his headrest, turning to Jack for approval.

“Sure is. But why’s he walkin’?” replied Frank. “This means we’ll have to wait longer.”

“No! No, what! Why?” Tommy whined.

“Because, Tommy, he has to get there first. We have to make sure he has it. Idiot,” said Jack.

“Can’t we give ‘im a lift or something?” asked Tommy.

Frank crushed the beer can on Tommy’s hand.

“Oww! Frank you motherfucker!” he shouted, quickly withdrawing his hand.

“Shut up, Tommy,” said Jack, “don’t ask stupid questions.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Tommy brooded over his damaged hands. Frank seemed lost in thought. A muffled buzzing sound interrupted the cold quiet. Jack removed his phone from his pocket.

“I’ll be right back guys.”

Jack stepped out of the car and closed the door. Tommy shuddered at the blast of cold air.

“Tommy,” said Frank.

“I’m not talking to you, Frank,” said Tommy.

“Throw away the beer can, Tommy.”

The can that Frank had crushed on Tommy’s hand lay beneath the passenger seat.

“No way, you drank it, you do it.”

“Yeah, but you were the last one to touch it,” said Frank, a grin beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.

“I hate you, Frank.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Frank, almost laughing.

“Seriously, Frank. You treat me like shit.”

“That’s cause’ you are shit!” responded Frank, the grin now absent. “Throw out the fuckin’ can!”

Tommy opened the door resignedly and chucked the can into the river. It bobbed up and down in the frosty water, joining the multitude of other debris. For the moment the door was open, part of Jack’s conversation drifted into the car.

“…ah, he’s on his way n…”

Tommy slammed the door shut. A minute later Jack opened the door and sat down.

“The wife…you know how it goes,” said Jack.

Frank turned slightly towards Tommy, expecting a witty retort, but none came. Tommy sat, arms crossed, looking dejectedly at his shoes. Frank checked his watch.

“Lets get him,” he announced.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. Immediately Frank cranked the heat up to full and gave one more sideways glance at Tommy.

* * *

Harvey strode up the stairs to his apartment door. The green paint on the door was cracked in a few places. The bottom quarter was covered in black smudges from when Harvey had his hands full and had to kick the door open. Today, however, he was carrying nothing. He inserted his key and walked inside. The lock clicked reassuringly into place as the door closed. Always cautious, he put the chain on the door as well.

A ceiling light illuminated the living room with a warm yellow radiance. Harvey had found the apartment three years ago. Despite its somewhat dilapidated condition, he was able to keep the place rather tidy. He had been fixing it up constantly since he moved in. First, he had removed the beige, coffee stained carpet. He had also taken down the white, moth eaten drapes and cleaned the rot out of the cupboards. The one thing he couldn’t fix was the kitchen door, which looked ancient. It had been advertised as a ‘double action spring door’. The springs in the hinges were supposed to return it to the closed position upon release, much like saloon doors. However since Harvey had been living there, the door had only ever opened outwards, and only returned three quarters of the way. When he tried to push it inwards the hinges made a horrible rasping noise. A friend of Harvey’s, a carpenter, had said that one of the springs in the top hinge was rusted, and was the cause of both the noise and the poor performance.

Harvey sped towards the bathroom, past the busted kitchen door. He reached under the sink and withdrew a black leather briefcase. Half empty bottles of cleaning fluid clattered to the floor, blue and green liquids sloshing and foaming. Harvey put the case on the counter in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He grasped a half empty glass of orange juice leftover from the morning, guzzled it in one swig, and returned the empty glass to the fridge. Turning, he grabbed the briefcase, and made his way to the door. About halfway across the room Harvey stopped short. His heart flew to his mouth and his vision tunneled. Someone had knocked on the door.

“Harvey?” barked a gruff voice.

Harvey stood frozen on the spot.

“Sh-shit!” he muttered to himself. He wasn’t expecting company, and the briefcase in his hands told him he sure didn’t want any.

“Hey, Harvey, you in there, buddy?” asked another, seemingly less tough voice.

Harvey heard what sounded like bickering. The door gave a sudden lurch inwards accompanied by a loud banging noise. Finally, jarred from inaction by the bang, Harvey dashed to his bedroom and threw his closet door open. He crouched down and began riffling through his clothes, casting every other item over his shoulder. Finally, he retrieved a small wooden box. He flipped the lid and removed a small, green, lemon shaped grenade.

* * *

“Harvey?” asked Frank, leaning against the green door.

“Hey, Harvey, you in there, buddy?” asked Tommy, cupping his hand to his mouth. Frank turned and swiftly raised his hand, preparing to backhand Tommy.

“You’re not supposed to talk!” he hissed, dropping his hand.

“Sorry, Frank, I thought I just might—”

“Stop talking, Tommy,” Jack interrupted, leaning against the back wall, arms crossed.

Frank threw himself at the door. The wood around the lock began to splinter. He hurled himself again. The wood gave a resounding crack and the door opened violently, only to be caught by the chain on the other side.

“Cut the chain, Tommy” Frank said, in an almost pleasant tone.

“Yeah, yeah…” replied Tommy as the bolt cutters in his hands sliced through the metal links.

Frank walked in first, followed by Jack, then Tommy. The apartment lights were on, and the door to the next room had been left a quarter open. Frank could see a refrigerator and a white ceramic counter in the next room.

“Tommy…” said Frank.

“What?” Tommy angrily hissed back.

“You wanna kick this one open?”

“Huh?” replied Tommy, shocked, “You kiddin me?”

“I mean it.”

“Well, gee, thanks a lot Fra—”

“Will one of you open the fucking door already?” Jack interjected, annoyed.

Tommy drew his small handgun and aligned himself with door. He raised his leg and kicked the kitchen door inwards with all his might. The power of the kick broke the rusted spring in the top hinge in two. Finally able to swing freely, the double action door slammed into the wall behind it and, urged by the spring in the bottom hinge, swung with full force back towards Tommy. The door connected with Tommy’s face with a sickening crunch. His head snapped back instantly, blood flying from his broken nose. He landed crumpled on the ground and let out a low moan.

Frank lunged over Tommy’s prostrate body, eyes consumed with anger. He crossed the kitchen in a single bound and slammed into the bedroom door, which flew open.

“Where’s the fucking case Harvey?” he bellowed.

But Harvey was nowhere to be seen.

“Where the fuck are you?” roared Frank.

“Frank!” Jack said in a commanding tone, “he’s in the bathroom!”

Frank turned, trembling with rage, and looked past Jack into the bathroom. Inside, Harvey was crouched behind the sink. His arms were wrapped around the briefcase, and his white knuckled right hand gripped the grenade ferociously.

“Give me the case, Harvey,” Jack instructed coolly, eyes fixed on the explosive.

“N…n…no…” Harvey muttered softly to himself.

“I believe you misheard me,” said Jack in a firmer tone. “The case. Now.”

“Y-you cant h-h-have it!” said Harvey slightly louder this time.

“Stutter one more time and I’ll blow your fucking head off!” roared Frank from behind Jack.

Jack turned to Frank. “Let me deal with this,” he said.

“No!” screamed Frank, charging forwards, “Ill kill this motherfu—.”

Jack’s switchblade clicked open and, in the same motion, was slammed into Frank’s oncoming chest. Blood tore rosy sluices down his clothing, collecting in a puddle on the floor. Frank fell to his knees and then onto his side, seizing the handle of the knife. In the other room, Tommy slowly lifted his hand and wiped the blood off his face, just in time to see Jack’s arm collide with Frank’s body.

* * *

Harvey clutched the explosive tightly. He knew that the moment he let go of the briefcase, a bullet would quickly find its way into his head. The only other option was blowing himself and his assailant to smithereens. He knew he had to make a move, but of its exact nature he could not be sure. Wondering why he had not yet been shot, Harvey yanked the pin out of the grenade.

“Woah!” exclaimed Jack. “Why don’t you replace that pin and hand me the case, huh? How bout it Harvey?” Jack slowly cocked the hammer of his gun and pointed it covertly in Harvey’s direction.

He was inexorably stuck. Both of his present options led straight to death, an experience which seemed wholly unappealing to Harvey. He tried frantically to think of another way out, a different scenario in which he could escape with his life. He was completely unaware of his attacker’s slow, deliberate movements.

Jack raised the gun, steadying it with his left hand. He glimpsed Harvey’s forehead through the sight. He knew he would have to act fast. If the grenade slipped from Harvey’s hands and the safety lever detached, he would have four seconds to grab the case and make it out of the room, a feat he was unsure he could complete. However, if he snatched the grenade away from Harvey before the safety lever flew off, he could reinsert the pin and secure the case. Jack tensed his right forefinger and tightened his legs in anticipation.

* * *

Tommy’s head was spinning. A dull pain throbbed as blood poured from a large gash in his forehead. He crawled up to Frank’s body.

“Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll get us out of this one,” he whispered. Tommy looked to both sides, eyes scanning the room. His gaze settled on a half empty bottle of vodka that had been knocked onto the floor. He crawled over to it, grasped the neck and took a hefty swig. Then, a mixture of anger and courage running through his veins, he strode silently behind Jack, bottle in hand.

Jack cocked the gun and seemed to tense up all of a sudden.

“This one’s for you, Frank,” Tommy whispered to himself as he brought the bottle down hard over Jack’s head. Immediately it shattered, and blood and vodka took to the air as Jack fell forwards. As the gun slammed into the ground, the hammer flew forwards and sent a bullet spiraling out of the barrel. Harvey let out a scream of pain as the bullet shattered his shinbone. He released the briefcase, but not the grenade, and clutched his injured leg close to his chest, writhing in pain. Tommy immediately focused all his attention on Frank’s motionless body.

“Ok, Frank, lets go, alright, I’ll take us to the hospital.”

Frank let out a short groan as Tommy pulled him to his feet.

“Just down the stairs, ok buddy?” The pool of blood where Frank had lain looked rather large to Tommy, but he was sure Frank would make it. Blood dripped from Tommy’s face as he dragged Frank from Harvey’s apartment.

* * *

Harvey could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness as pain shot through his leg. He could feel warm liquid trickling through his fingers. He was dimly aware of something in his right hand, as well as a dark rectangle in his blurring vision. Blood made its way slowly across the tiles, soaking into the white shag rug in front of the shower. He was powerless to stop the blackness encroaching on the edges of his perception. As he slid into unconsciousness, the grenade slipped from the tips of his fingers. It rolled for a moment before a sturdy leather shoe came down on it, immobilizing it safely against the floor. The pin gave a small screech as it was reinserted into the grenade. Dawn threw a golden ray onto the burnished chrome clasps of the briefcase as it left the room. A thick curl of white cigar smoke wafted out of Harvey’s bathroom window and was illuminated red, then blue, as lights flashed on the street below.