FAMILY
BUSINESS
By
Donald Glass
As Paul cracked another beer there
was a knock at the door.
Glancing at the TV he smiled. The Ravens were up by three touchdowns over the
Steelers. Baltimore looked like they would easily cover the three point spread.
He got up off of his recliner, muted the television and put down a slice of the
pizza delivered by mistake. The delivery boy said it was already paid for. With
a free dinner and winning a thousand dollars on the game, it was turning out to
be a good night.
A
small huddled figure stood on his porch with snow swirling around him. Even
bundled in a large coat and with a scarf wrapped around most of his face he
recognized him instantly. His soon to be father-in-law, Hank. This struck Paul
as odd. He didn’t really like Hank and he didn’t think Hank had liked him. The
man, always distant around him, rarely spoke a word when he was near and gave
Paul the feeling that he was always being judged. Linda had said not to worry,
her father was that way with everybody.
Paul
owned a successful used car dealership and he saw Hank as a weaker individual,
someone who he would eat alive in a business deal. But he was Linda’s father,
so he begrudgingly put up with him when he had too. Hank was the last person he
thought would show up at his door unannounced.
“Linda’s
not here,” he said immediately upon opening the door, hoping Hank would get the
hint or at least the tone in his voice and leave. Hank only smiled.
“I
know. I came to see you and maybe watch some football.”
“I
didn’t think you liked football, or any type of sport, for that matter.”
“Normally
I don’t, but seeing as we are going to be family soon, I thought we might have
a drink and chat a bit, you know, bond”
“Bond…us?
Listen Hank, we don’t have anything in common. I run a successful business and
you… well if it wasn’t for your daughter we wouldn’t have anything to even talk
about, let alone bond over,”
“That’s okay, I’ll
do most of the talking. All you have to
do is listen.”
Hank,
who also considered himself a salesman, sold insurance, over the phone. He
didn’t write up policies but worked at a call center irritating ninety percent
of the people who actually picked up their phone. People like him genuinely
annoyed Paul. He’d had more than his fair share of telemarketer calls.
“Aren’t
you going to invite me in?”
“Sure
why not,” he sighed stepping wide with an exaggerated flourish of his arm.
Hank
smiled, stepped past him, took off his coat and walked to the dining room.
Picking up a slice of the pizza he pulled out a chair and sat down, making
himself at home.
“Like I said, I’ll do most of
the talking.”
Paul stared at him blankly for a moment,
a bit confused,
then shook his head. He followed him into the dining room and sat down across
from him at the table.
“Okay, what’s this about?”
Paul questioned, not hiding his
irritation.
“What are you doing about Michael?”
Michael was Linda’s ex-husband, and
a
first class asshole. He’d been trying to get custody of their daughter Emily
for the past two years, all the while making Linda’s life a living hell. The
mental abuse he was putting Linda through had her almost to the breaking point.
Vague threats and intimidation had been recently stepped up to claims of
physical abuse. The court had ordered mandatory physical examinations of the
girl. All of which had come back negative. Paul was paying for the best lawyer
in town, but Hank thought he should do more.
“Michael?
There’s nothing I can do, the lawyers are handling it. In fact, I had good news
this week. My lawyer thinks he can get the whole affair thrown out of court.
Every other day he has some outlandish claim. It’s beginning to piss the judge
off.”
Hank
shook his head.
“It’s
been two years, the lawyers aren’t doing shit. This whole Michael thing is
taking a toll on the girl. Emily is going to be your daughter. You should be
doing something about this.”
“Listen
Hank, I understand how you feel but I’m not like Michael. I love your daughter
and she loves me. And I would do anything for that sweet little girl of hers,
but my hands are tied.”
“Loving
someone and doing right by them are two different things. Sometimes you have to
make the hard choice.”
Paul
couldn’t be sure but he thought he noticed a slight quivering in Hanks body
when he spoke, as if a fire inside him had been stoked. He knew it had taken a
lot for him to come over tonight. The man sitting across from him had changed.
Hank sweated a confidence Paul had never seen in him before.
“Would
you like a
beer?” Paul asked, attempting to extinguish the flame before it began to
ignite.
“You have anything stronger…bourbon
maybe?”
“I didn’t think you drank
the hard stuff?”
“I do tonight.”
Paul
got up and went to the bar. He filled two glasses with ice and a generous
amount of Clyde May’s Bourbon. Returning to the table he sat the drinks down
and took his seat. Hank picked up his drink and swallowed it in one gulp.
“Whoa, slow down buddy. I know
you’re in a bad place right
now, we all are, but getting hammered isn’t the way to deal with it.”
The alcohol burned in Hank’s
belly and spread out from his
center, radiating throughout his entire body. The sensation relaxed and calmed
him. He took a deep breath.
“When you have a daughter you’re
extra protective. You
notice things…little things others might miss. It took a while but I’m seeing
things in full light, and I know what needs done.” Hank paused a moment and
took a deep breath before continuing. “Michael has got to go,” he finished, his
voice the calmest it had been all night.
“Go…I don’t understand,
go where?”
Hank
slowly stood and reached across the table. He picked up Paul’s drink, took a
sip and sat back down placing the drink in front of himself.
“You
have to step up. Be a man and handle business…family business.”
There
was a hint of something in his voice that Paul couldn’t put his finger on. Weak
was the word Paul would have used to describe Hank before tonight. Sitting in
his dining room Paul saw a strong man sitting across from him. It made him
uncomfortable. Like he was about to lose a lot of money on a deal he thought
was a slam dunk.
“I’m
tired of waiting for lawyers. How much longer will they drag this on? How much
more will they put that little girl through. Tonight, I’m clearing all paths
and making things right. You need to do the right thing too, you need to kill
Michael. With him gone all this shit goes away and everyone lives happily ever
after.”
Paul
let out a small half choked chuckle. He couldn’t believe what Hank had just
said, but the look on Hank’s face troubled him.
“So
you want me to drive across town and just kill him. How would I even do that?”
he asked, trying to humor Hank.
“With
this.”
Leaning
back in his chair he pulled a Smith and Wesson revolver out of his waistband,
gripping it delicately between his thumb and forefinger as if he was afraid of
it and placed it on the table between them. With a hard push he slid the gun
toward Paul. Instinctively he reached out to stop it and quickly yanked his
hand away.
“Pick
up the gun,” Hank said his voice louder.
Paul’s
eyes darted from the gun to Hank and then back again. He noticed the scratch
marks where the serial number had been filed off. Paul suddenly realized two
things. One was that the man wasn’t joking and the second and was that, even
though what he wanted done was completely outlandish, Hank wasn’t crazy. He was
deadly serious. Gently Paul reached out and picked up the gun. With a slight
tremor he raised the weapon and pointed it at Hank.
“You’re
crazy old man. I’m not doing anything. In fact, I think it’s time for you to
leave.”
Ignoring
the gun pointed at him, Hank reached out and picked up his drink. He took a
small sip and sighed when he sat the glass back down.
“I
really hoped you would do the right thing. I didn’t think you would do it when
I came here tonight. But I had to find out. Deep down I knew I would have to
handle things myself. I’ll be needing that gun back.”
“You’re
not getting this back. In fact, maybe I should call the police.”
Hank reached into his jacket pocket
and pulled out a Glock
19, not gingerly as he had done before, but with the confidence of a man
familiar with his weapon. He pointed the gun at Paul. “If you don’t give the
gun back by the count of three, I’m going to have to take if from you.”
Paul
noticed the
tiny smirk on Hank’s face, as if he was enjoying this, and for the first time
ever he felt afraid of the old man.
“One.”
Staring down the barrel pointing at
him, sweat began to
bead on Paul’s forehead.
“Two.”
“You
don’t want to do this, Hank,” he said, his voice almost pleading as he noticed
the muscles in Hank’s forearm tightening as he gripped the gun harder.
“Bang,” Hank yelled.
Instinctively
Paul’s fight or flight response kicked in and without thinking he pulled the
trigger. The dry click of the hammer hitting the spent shell, although barely
noticeable, seemed to reverberate in the room.
“What
the fuck?” Paul shouted and looked at the impotent weapon and back at Hank.
“The
gun isn’t loaded, but let me assure you that this one is. Now put it down and
slide it over to me. There’s still business to finish.”
His
hand shook as he placed the gun on the table and slid it back to Hank, not
knowing what he would do next. Carefully Hank pocketed the weapon. He then
reached out and took a slice of pizza from the box. He leaned back in his
chair, ignoring Paul, and began to eat. The Glock lying close, easily within
reach.
“I
never wanted you to kill Michael. I only wanted you to want to kill him,” Hank
said, pulling a thick piece of melted cheese off of the slice. “You know I’ve
always loved Sal’s Pizza. But they don’t deliver to my neighborhood. So I had
it delivered here.”
Hank
had ordered the pizza. It would look like he’d been here all night.
“You already killed Michael?”
“Yes,” he replied finishing
the slice.
“And you think I’m gonna
be your alibi?”
“You don’t have to be.
You can call the police the minute I
walk out of here, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you were never meant
to be my alibi,” he said
picking up the Glock and pointing it at Paul, “I’m yours.”
Understanding
fully crept into Paul. Hank didn’t kill Michael with the gun he was holding. He
killed him with the gun Paul had picked up, the gun with his fingerprints on it,
the gun that was now in Hank’s pocket.
“Some
people choose the path they’re on while others are pushed in the general
direction. My daughter chose you, she chose her path and I’m showing you yours.
I know you’ll do the right thing, be a good father and husband. Don’t make me
ever have to use this,” he said patting his left front pocket, “or this,” he
finished raising the Glock.
Paul
slumped in his chair.
“One way or another Michael had to
go. This,”
he said, patting his jacket pocket again, “is just an insurance policy. My
daughter is a good person who always seems to make bad choices. She has an awful
track record with men, always has. You’re on the right path now. I wouldn’t
stray from it if I were you.”
Hank stood and walked towards the door, putting his
overcoat and scarf on along the way. As he Pocketed the weapon he glanced at
the muted television. The Steelers had come back, 28-21 with three seconds to
go. One kneel down and it would be over. He cracked the door feeling the cold
winter air blow across his face, and felt younger than he had in years.
