Imagine My Surprise! (35.2)

The Luxury Suite Mêlée and the violent conclusion!

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35.2 The Luxury Suite Mêlée

… He stood between them and me, but a little to the side so they could see me on my stool. “With that, I give you The Great Houston!”

This word, Houston, definitely gave them pause. Did they hear that right? Their faces showed confusion, smiles faltering, like they were trying to reconcile the meaning of this stage name: Houston, like the city? Like Sam Houston? Like a cowboy? S’posed to be funny?

My fear was gone. In its place was a joyful anger. And relief. This was it, and whatever happened, happened. And I was on fire.

“Greetings! Franks! Poins! Dolly!”

Poins’ smile, what there was left of it, fell. Franks and Dolly didn’t catch my familiar tone. I mean, I was a five-year-old on a stool, who they supposed was about to perform a magic trick with their phones.

I continued, “I want to apologize for the giant charade we’ve been orchestrating. This has been a long time coming. I mean, ever since I died. You see, I may look like a kid named Keenan, but I’m actually the reincarnation of Kurt Houston, your former boss. Who you killed.”

The stadium suddenly shook as the first batter was up to start the bottom of the sixth. With the game tied up, spirits were high.

Dolly’s face was frozen; Franks’ mouth moved but nothing came out, and he searched the faces next to him, then to Stoli.

“W-what did he just say, John?” Franks quavered.

But Poins was furious, and took a slow step forward.

“I knew it, Franks. I told you something was up with these guys.” Poins looked about to explode, and was sizing up Stoli as he waited for Franks to say the word.

“John, what’s going on?” Franks asked, putting down his drink and taking his feet.

“It’s Keenan’s show now, Frank. I just work here.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Look, you all heard correctly. You may see a five-year-old boy, but it’s me — Kurt. It’s taken me all this time to grow up enough so I could find you and face you down. Because I need to know: why did you kill me, Franks?”

The batter, on a full count, hit the ball into left field, well within view of our windows. The crowd ignited at full volume, masking Dolly’s quick, gasping shriek. She staggered back on her seat, and Franks helped her sit.

I remember thinking, Sorry, Dolly…didn’t really count on you being here.

Poins was a pitbull on a leash as Franks held him back by the collar. Franks said, “Hold on, PD — this has to be a joke. A bad fucking joke. But, I mean, who would…” And Franks did a funny thing and looked at Dolly, taking a step back. “Is this your idea of being funny, Dolly?” Poins glanced at her, too, then at me, then Stoli. Poins was lost with no place to put the violence he so wanted to unleash.

“What are you talking about?” she asked plaintively, blood drained from her face. I’d never seen Dolly in such a state. “Who are these people? What’s going on?” Her shoulders shook and she looked like she might vomit.

The roar of the crowd was so continuous now that I had to almost shout. “Dolly, don’t worry. This wasn’t for you. You just had the bad luck of showing up at the wrong time. You see, it was Franks here who slipped me the fentanyl shot ten years ago that killed me. And I died but was reincarnated into a little baby in Campbell.”

“This is insane,” Franks protested.

Stoli’s countenance was grim but alive, almost as though he was having a good time. He set himself firmly in place at the top of the single step that separated the fore from the aft of the suite. He reassured them, “Look, everyone, this doesn’t have to get messy. Keenan’s just going to say his peace and then we are going to go. He just wants you to know that your actions have consequences.”

“Fuck this,” Poins spat, as he jerked away from Franks.

“Please, stand back, Poindexter,” Stoli warned, hands forward.

“Whatever,” he grunted, as he attempted to barrel through Stoli. With stunning grace, Stoli side-stepped Poins, Aikido-style, and dropped him on his back, right there on the step, and finished with a quick jab to Poins’ nose, a relatively mild jab, a warning jab that said, “I’m not the guy you think I am, so back off.”

This happened so surprisingly fast that it managed to stop Dolly’s hysterics. Poins groaned and sat half-up, hands on his face; Stoli used his boot to topple him back down the stair in front of Franks. Poins, stunned, but still clearly not done, got on one knee. There was blood on his chin under his hand, and he shot fury at us through watery eyes.

“Holy shit! Poins! John! Stop!” Franks shouted over the white noise of the stadium outside. He put himself between the two men. “Okay. Everybody, take a breath.” He glared at Poins. “PD, fucking stand the fuck down.” Then he looked at Stoli and I. There was something close to a grin on his face. “I think I know what’s going on now. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It has to be Bart!” He glanced at Dolly, then Poins, then back at us. “Bart is the only one who could put this together. I get it — he’s pissed because he did time. This is payback for getting rolled. Okay, ha ha. He’s got a sick fucking sense of humor. Where is he? Outside the door?”

Stoli stood relaxed but ready. I felt the same way, so I jumped down from the stool and approached them, staying a safe distance behind Stoli.

“Bart didn’t put us up to this, Franks. It’s me, Kurt.”

“Stop it!” Dolly croaked.

“Look, you little fucker. I don’t know why or how they trained you to do this little act of yours, but it stops right now. It sucks, because I actually liked you. And you, too, John. This breaks my heart that it was all some sort of joke. I thought we coulda done some business.” He paused. “You guys should just get the fuck out now.” He patted his pants for his missing phone. “Give me back my phone.”

I was not to be deterred. “Fucking Franks. It all comes down to business for you. Remember the time you came over to my house when Dolly and I were screwing in the living room and you had this quote-unquote great idea about starting at coke-dealing taxi service? Remember that one, Einstein?”

Dolly looked sick. Poins was on his feet again, a pile of blood-soaked napkins at his feet. There was a napkin twist up each nostril, and, to add insult to injury (literally) he was still wearing his bright Giants-orange blazer, blood on the lapel, one of the pockets ripped.

“Hey, that was a good idea,” Franks protested, then paused. “I see what you’re doing. Kurt could’ve easily told Bart that story. This is bullshit. You’re not going to get us to believe that Kurt is risen from the dead. Stop this horseshit and get the fuck out of my suite.” Franks started toward Stoli.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” Stoli apologized, “You’re going to have to wait until he’s done.”

“You can’t take us both on.” Franks edged forward.

“Try me,” Stoli said through his teeth. Franks edged back again.

I continued. “Poins — I mean, Steven Hightower — remember when we were on our way to shake down that little dealer guy near Parnassus and I asked you why they called you Poindexter and you said because you were smart? I always thought that was funny.” He stared at me malevolently. “Remember, why I called you Poins?”

There was a pause and Franks looked back at Poins, who seemed to be unraveling a little. Terror and fury are a volatile combination. This was when I saw the first little crack of doubt. He said, “Because Shakespeare.” He took a step forward.

“What’s my birthday, then?” Dolly suddenly challenged.

“We are not humoring these assholes, Dolly,” Franks cut in.

“July 18th. You’re a Cancer. And I always made the joke that you had to be a Cancer because you were more addictive than cigarettes.”

Dolly gasped. Franks would have none of it. “Dolly, pull yourself together. There’s a thousand ways Bart could know that?”

“How?!”

“Bart isn’t here, you stupid Irish fucker,” I barked at him in my small voice.

“Every time swear-words come out of your little kids’ mouth, it’s very fucking unsettling.”

Poins was panting, and he sneered, “That sounds a lot like Kurt, Franks.”

“Stop it, you two! He’s five! Calm the fuck down!” And with that, Franks tried to shoot past Stoli, who clotheslined him by the neck and threw him back, staggering him into Poins’ arms. Franks gained his feet quickly, filled with new anger. “What the fuck do you assholes want from us?”

I ignored him. “While we’re on the subject — did you set up Bart?”

Franks blew out a sigh. “See, I knew it,” he said to Poins and Dolly. At this point, it was only Franks who hadn’t started to believe I was Kurt, and he was disgusted with them. He turned back to me. “I didn’t set up Bart. You can tell that to him, since I’m sure he’s outside having a good fucking laugh.” He gestured to Stoli. “So, where’d you learn those moves? Did Bart find you in prison, John? Do you guys have a pact or something?”

“I was in the Army Rangers, Frank. In Afghanistan.”

This bit of news deflated Franks a little, but Poins didn’t react.

I said, “Franks — Bart disappeared after he got out on parole. He was in Atlanta awhile but now he’s whereabouts unknown. I tried to find him.”

“Whatever.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Dolly whimpered.

“You knew Jericho was hot, didn’t you?” I accused Frank.

“Jericho.” He paused, mentally scrolling back. “Look, I didn’t know nothing. I mean, he was acting weird, but that guy was always… weird.”

“So, he was quote-unquote acting weird and you sent Bart in anyway? Goddamn you.”

Dolly and Poins looked skeptically at Franks.

“Look, it’s a risky business. I didn’t know anything for sure.”

In a trance-like voice, Poins suddenly looked at me and cut in: “There is no death.”

We looked at him, and I said, “Dude, I died. And it wasn’t pleasant.” Then I drilled into Franks, “Would you have gone to meet Jericho if you were in town?”

Franks hesitated too long.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Now, lastly, Franks, why did you give me the hot shot?”

“I — ”

And that’s when Poins made his move. He screamed a gurgling war cry and charged at us again. Franks was right on his heels. I scrambled back up toward the door. Stoli was expecting something like this. As Poins shot to the right, Stoli moved to meet him; but Poins was only feinting and instantly sprang left, bringing with him a right hook. Had Poins not been so short, this might’ve done some serious damage, but being down a step, it merely struck Stoli’s chest. Franks was the other problem. He suddenly collided with Poins who had dodged left. Tall and skinny Franks, with what only could be called spindly limbs, tangled up with the shorter, tank-like Poins. Stoli was right there to capitalize on this accidental slapstick maneuver, and he used his body to guide them into the iron railing, which made a terrific yawning squeal as it bent backwards, partially coming free of the wall, crushing the yucca tree behind it, and completely stopping their forward momentum.

This all happened in the space of three seconds. Our two foes were in a pile wedged between the wall, the rail and the step, which they still hadn’t managed to cross. I had this feeling that everybody was playing their rehearsed part and everything was happening on cue. That said, those guys had made a lot of noise just then and I wondered if that finally alerted security. Outside the suite, the stadium was still making plenty of noise.

The flat screen said Diamondbacks 4, Giants 6.

“This isn’t happening,” Dolly repeated.

Stoli, who had managed to keep his feet, stood above them rubbing his clavicle. “Goddammit, you guys. Let Keenan finish and we’ll go. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Franks pulled himself off of Poins, who was slow to get up. Stoli watched him closely. Poins got on all fours and sat back, still in the orange blazer, now thoroughly ruined. The corner of his left eye looked like it had caught one of the iron rungs and was bleeding.

Stoli told Poins, “That was a nice move, but Frank here fucked it all up.”

Somehow, we had still maintained the stand-off.

Franks clenched and unclenched his right hand, grimacing. “I think I fucked up my hand.” Then he looked at us wearily. “Look, I don’t know why you guys are doing this shit, but just get it over and get the fuck out. How am I gonna explain this mess to management?”

I approached again. “Shit, you guys are exactly like I left you: fuck-ups.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, say you are the reincarnation of Kurt ‘Biggest Junkie in the World’ Houston: you were a fucking pathetic old wastoid who started out pretty cool, but in the end, was a real prick. And a junkie.”

“Granted. But that was no reason to kill me.”

Franks exploded, “I DIDN’T FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU FUCKER!!” Lips twitching, eyes bulging, shouting at a five-year-old.

“Well, August didn’t kill me!” I said. “Setting up that poor kid was lower than low.”

“We didn’t set him up! He got popped and kept his mouth shut. He did the loyal thing.”

“You let him take a fall for my murder, you asshole! And, Poins — ”

Poins trained his terrible gaze from Stoli to me, dripping hate.

“Poins, how could you do that to that kid? He looked up to you.”

He shrugged and said, “Thems the breaks, holmes.”

“Was having him shivved the breaks, too, motherfucker?”

Staring straight at me he repeated, “Thems the breaks.”

Franks sucked in air. “Are you fucking kidding me, Poins? You said — ”

“THEM’S THE BREAKS, FRANKS!” he shouted turning, taking a threatening step toward his boss.

“Goddamn it,” Franks cursed.

Dolly kneeled on her haunches in the corner, leaning against the wall, under the long window counter. She whispered This isn’t happening this isn’t happening over and over.

I continued: “Yeah, poor white-bread August, taking a fall for Franks’ fentanyl. Yeah, I read my autopsy report, Franks. There I was, just out of detox, and you left me with a fine birthday present: shooting works and a bag of what you called Afghani superjunk. And, yeah, I shouldn’t have shot it — I was weak. I didn’t shoot much, but you don’t need a lot when it’s cut with fucking fentanyl. It was a classic hotshot, and you know it.”

“Really, you little fucker? You came back from the dead to tell me this?” And then Franks started laughing. And laughing. Poins dragged himself to one of the cocktail tables and used water from a bottle to wash the blood off his face. He finally tossed aside the ruined coat and took off the shirt and tie. He was now in just slacks and a wife-beater tank top. Poins’ squat torso, a combination of muscle and fat, was decorated with an impressive display of tattoos: a kaleidoscopic mish-mash of gangland runes scrawled without reason. Poins drained the rest of the Jameson’s down his throat.

Dolly suddenly spoke up, clearly turning something over in her mind. “So, Franks…who’d you get this supposed superjunk from anyway? You never even used the stuff.”

Franks continued, “That’s the funny part — the dope was actually a birthday present from PD; he gave it to me to give to Kurt. I just, well … I just said it was from me.” Franks shrugged. Dolly’s jaw dropped, and a boil of rage brought her out of her crouch.

“Poindexter! You asshole!” she hissed at him. She looked at me, her face anguished. She turned back to Poins, continuing, “I found that fentanyl for you…” Dolly’s sentence trailed off. Then she ran at Poins, arms swinging. “YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!”

But her attack was nothing to Poins, who stopped her cold with a straight punch to the face, dropping her like a sack. “Thems the breaks,” he said at her crumpled body.

“Poindexter!” Franks barked. He fell to Dolly’s side. “What have you done?”

Stoli braced himself. “There’s something wrong with you, man.”

Poins smashed the Jameson bottle on the table and slowly approached us with its jagged menace, locking his gaze on me.

“Fuckin’ right there’s something wrong with me…and it’s that little motherfucker right there.” He gestured at me with the broken bottle. “You’re the same pompous fucking know-it-all jack-off you always were.” Poins spit blood on the ground as he stepped forward. “Getting clean is really what killed you. Me and Franks had it covered. Except you just couldn’t stay the fuck dead, Kurt.”

“Hold it right there, PD,” Stoli said. “Look, I think we are actually done now, and we can go. No need to make this worse.”

That’s when it all hit me: I said, “Oh, shit! It was Poins who did it — of course!” I was both elated and mortally embarrassed. “Oh, my God! I’ve spent five years obsessing over the wrong killer.” I laughed. “Shit, Franks doesn’t have the stones to murder someone. What was I thinking?! Of course, it was Poins!”

“STOP CALLING ME POINS, YOU ARROGANT FUCKHOLE!” he shouted.

But then — this high-drama scene was instantly silenced by a loud pounding on the front door. We all froze. A voice shouted through the door: “Hello! Sorry, to bother you — it’s security. We’ve had some complaints. Can we come in, please?”

There was this weird moment when we all looked around the room and realized what a disaster the place was. We were fucked. Blood was everywhere in the forward lounge. “Coming!” I blurted, edging backwards, moving away from the standoff. When I reached the door, I shouted, “Okay, I’m unlocking it!”

But the thing wouldn’t unlock. The lock was frozen in place. I looked at the door jamb and it was covered in dried glue — epoxy. “Stoli, what the fuck?” He looked back at me and saw the problem.

“Oh — shit — I’m sorry — it was supposed to be a precaution.”

That’s when Poins made his move.

“Watch out!” I shouted.

Poins lunged the jagged bottle at Stoli, who reflexively held up his left hand. The glass gored open Stoli’s palm like crushed steak. At the same time, Poins swung a left hook up into Stoli’s groin. Stoli groaned as he fell to his knees, pulling his damaged hand to his body like a broken wing.

Poins sidestepped Stoli and leveled his eyes at me.

“Poindexter!” Franks jumped up from where Dolly lay slumped. The Irishman put a hand on his partner’s back. “Stop this shit! We can still fix this.”

I didn’t have a clear view of what happened next because Poins was between me and Franks. But I heard Poins shout, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” and his right arm made a flourishing backhand spin that completed in a somewhat graceful pirouette. Behind him, Franks dropped from view. Poins locked his gaze on me and cursed, “Fucking, Kurt.”

He came for me.

I hammered my little fists on the door, screaming, “Help! Help!”

But Stoli wasn’t done and, from the ground, he grabbed the back of Poins’ belt with his good hand. Poins grunted with rage and spun, swiping at Stoli’s arm with the bottle, slashing it through the St. Patrick’s FC jersey. Stoli let go with a gasp, and Poins proceeded to stomp and kick the downed man.

Seeing Stoli getting stomped triggered the crazy in me and I found myself running toward Poins, in my hand the short icepick-like tactical keychain. The front door shattered behind me as I dove through the air. My target was Poins’ left kidney, and I knew full-well the three-inch weapon would be only a slightly painful distraction. Fuck it, I thought and I jammed it in Poins’ side, jabbing as hard as a five-year-old could jab. Poins gagged out a scream, turned quickly, saw me, raised his fist and — BAM!

That’s all I remember.

~~•~~

The rest of the account comes from Stoli, paraphrased.

“It wasn’t the ripped hand that did me — it was the punch to the balls. That totally took me down. And when he saw I was down, he just kind of dismissed me as a threat and immediately moved on to you. Like the Terminator. That’s when I finally realized how scary this guy was. I’ve seen this behavior before — in battle.

“In any case, somehow I got him by the belt and slowed him down, but this really pissed him off. While I can appreciate that this was the moment that saved you, it was also the moment that got me stomped. But, you know, I’ve been stomped before. You learn how to be stomped. So, as I was stomped, I remembered the tactical pen in my pocket, which I could feel stabbing me in the thigh every time I hunched up for a kick. But I couldn’t reach it. I’d almost lost hope.

“But the kicking stopped suddenly and Poins made this weird animal growl, so I looked up and saw you had stabbed him with your silly tactical keychain. Oh, man, that was a very stupid thing for you to do. You must really like me.”

“Just tell me what happened,” I said.

“Everything was in slow motion — you know, the adrenaline. I’m on the floor and I see him wind up like a boxer, a brawler — a prison fighter — and he throws a hard straight punch to the top of your head. Not some back-of-the-hand slap-down — he clocked you with purpose.”

“That’s why I dropped so fast.”

“He wasn’t punching Keenan. He was punching Kurt.”

Stoli continued, “To add to this chaos, ballpark security busted through the door and wood and glass flew everywhere. Poins stood over you like some weird monster, about to deliver the death blow; but I finally had my own stupid tactical pen in my hand and I jammed it as hard as I could up into Poins’ junk. Right into his ball-sack. My leverage was shit but I gave it all I could. It stopped him long enough for security to take him down. They piled on him.”

“Tell me about Franks and Dolly — oh … and thank you for saving my life.”

“Sure thing. Well, it was the cops busting in that woke Dolly up. She said the big crash of the front door made her sit straight up after Poins’ knocked her out. She was down maybe ninety seconds? It all happened so fast. So, Dolly sat up and saw Franks lying on his side, a couple of feet away, in a big pool of his own blood. He was twitching and still holding his neck as blood pumped through his fingers, she said. She saw his fingers go limp. That’s when she thinks he bled all the way out. Poins had got him across the throat with that bottle.”

“I think I saw him do that. Franks was trying to help Dolly, and Poins just slashed him. I saw Franks go down.”

“So, the cops came in and grabbed Poins. I passed out for a second, and when I came to again, a paramedic was kneeling over me. Dolly was yelling for help for Franks, but it was already too late for him. The side of Dolly’s face was a gory mess from Poins’ punch. And to top it all off, the cops dragged Poins out as he shouted, ‘There is no death! There is no death!”

Poins wasn’t exactly right, wasn’t exactly wrong.

“What a mess,” I said, “I kind of feel sorry for Franks.”

“Me, too, Keenan. And Dolly. She looked bad, but she seemed lucid. I saw her talking to the cops before they put us in the ambulance. And…well, the rest of it was in the news.”

“That’s right. What was it? Something like: “‘Notorious Gangster ‘The Irishman’ Killed in Ballpark Brawl’? Something like that.”

“Something like that.”