Fiction by Robert Denby: "OK", Part Four

 

Photo by Beyzaa Yurtkuran

I hit Salt Lake a little after ten in the morning.  I pull into a gas station, buy a map and a cup of coffee, and try to figure out where the hell they're holding Bobby.  I had these visions of wandering around some strange city for most of the day, but the streets are well laid out and easy to follow, and I'm pulling up to the jail within thirty minutes. I find a parking space, get out, and stretch my arms over my head.  It's chillier than I'm used to it being in April, so I reach into the back seat and pull out my goomba jacket, this black, waist-length leather thing that's lying across my duffel filled with this week's laundry (Figure I might as well get something useful done this trip.)  

I cross the parking lot and push open the glass doors into what has to be one of the nicest waiting rooms I've ever seen in a correctional facility; clean paint, well-lit, even the Newsweek on the coffee table is new.  I walk up to the front desk and take my place in line.  It must be a slow morning; within a couple of minutes, I'm in front of a female officer sitting behind the bulletproof glass.  Blonde hair with dark roots starting to show.  About 5' 6", I'm guessing.  

Kind of cute.

"Yeah, I'm here to bail someone out."

"Name?"

"Robert Hannigan."

"Middle name?"

"Dennis."

"And your name?"

"John Dennis Hannigan."

"Same middle name?"

"Family tradition."

"He's your brother?"

"That's right."

"OK, let's see."  She taps at her keyboard for a moment.

 "Here he is.  That'll be $500.  Cash or credit card?"

"Cash, please."  I take the five bills and slide them through the slot on the counter.

"Great," she says.  "Would you like a receipt?"

"Yes.  Please."

"Alright," she says.  She taps at her keyboard again.  "Hang on here.  There's a note."

"What kind of note?"

"According to this, Officer Mortensen wants to see whoever comes to get Mr. Hannigan here. I think he should be here in the building."

"What's the problem?"

"Couldn't say.  Doubt it'd be anything serious or it'd say more here.  Would you mind waiting here?  I'll page him."

"Sure."

"Let me get you your receipt."  She rings me up on the cash register and hands me my stub.

"Thanks a lot.  He'll be right out."

She smiles at me.  Professional courtesy, but it's still a nice one.

"Thanks."

I cross the room back over to the coffee table, take a seat, and grab the copy of Newsweek.  I'm not watching the clock, but I'm halfway through an article on the Supreme Court when a cop in motorcycle patrol uniform comes out of a door by the glass cages.

"John Hannigan?" he calls out.

"Here," I answer, raising my hand, standing, and crossing over to him.  He has a buzzcut and a moustache, both with a little bit of grey in them.  As I approach him, I can see him taking me in; his eyes are moving up and down.  He's about 6' 2", and I guess he's used to being the tallest person in a room, but I have a couple of inches up on him.

"Mr. Hannigan?" he asks, offering me his hand.

"Yes." I shake it.

"I'm Officer Mortensen.  The one who pulled your brother over.  I'm glad I caught you. Did he tell you what happened?"

"Not much.  Just that he was in here and needed someone to get him out."

"Well, the gist of it is that he was doing 35 in a 25 zone, so I pulled him over.  Ran a check and found out that his license had been suspended since January, so I bought him in.  Unfortunately, that's all we can hold him on."

"What does 'unfortunately' mean?"

He reaches around and rubs his neck.  "Well, Mr. Hannigan, what I'm about to tell you is completely unofficial, but...hmm.  Let me just put it like this.  We searched him and searched the car, and he didn't have anything on him besides a pack of cigarettes, so we can't hold him now that he's made bail.  I just wanted you to know.  He's on meth."

"Meth?"

"Of some sort, yes.  All I had to do was look at his face.  Heck, I could even smell it on him.  I see this all the time.  Were you aware of this?"

I sigh.  "Not meth, but it's usually something with him.  Ever since high school.  I don't see him much anymore.  Not even when he was living nearby."

"Don't you live here in town?"

"No, California.  Anaheim."

"And you came all the way here to bail him out?"

"Yes."

"Did you fly?"

"Drove.  Just got here about an hour ago."

He lets out a low whistle. "Wow. That's something."

"I don't know.  I guess."

"Well, anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that he needs help.  I just wanted someone close to him to understand that if he keeps doing what he's doing, he'll be back through here either for hurting someone else or as a corpse.  And none of us want that.  I sure you understand that." 

"Yes, Officer, I do."

 

"Mr. Hannigan, I know he's an adult and it's not fair that you spend your life taking care of him, but try talking to him.  You drove from California for him.  Maybe he'll be willing to listen to you."

"I'll try, but this shit's been going on for ages.  I'm not sure how much good I can be."

"I understand," he says, pulling a card out of his breast pocket.  "Here's my number.  If I'm not here, you can try right here."  He points.  "That's my cell.  When he's ready for help, let me know and I'll take him in personally.  He'll get attention quicker if I do it."

"OK, I try," I say, offering him my hand again.  "This is something.  Is this how all cops are here?"

He smiles and shakes it.  "Afraid not.  I saw that he was headed for trouble and just felt like doing something while I could.  Thanks for your time."

"No, thank you."

"You seem like you'll be good for him.  God bless you."

"Um, thanks."

He gives me one last nod, opens the door, and heads back inside.  I walk back over to the coffee table and sit.

God bless you?

Some town.

***

It's another ten minutes or so before Bobby comes out.  The cop had said 'meth' and I've certainly seen my share of guys strung out on that shit, but it's quite another to see your own flesh and blood.  I can still recognize him, and that almost makes it worse.  He's down to a hundred pounds or so, so thin that I can make out his eye sockets and cheek bones.  Huge craters and scabs all over his face and knuckles.  He's still got all his hair, but it's hung down over his collar in one greasy lump.  He's wearing a grime-colored denim jacket buttoned all the way up, matching jeans, and Converse so ratty I almost expect them to go up in a puff of smoke.

 The door slams shut as he sees me, waves, and flashes a huge smile.

"J.D., MAN!  OVER HERE!" 

Both of his upper teeth are gone.

Keep your mouth closed, Bobby.  Please.

"HEY!"

I cross over to his side and grab his arm.  Even through his coat, I feel the bones in his arm.

"Sssh!  Stop yelling.  You ready to go?"

"No, man, not yet.  They towed my car.  We gotta get it back."

I tug at him.  "Forget about that right now.  You can't drive it, anyway.  Let's just get out of here."

"But my car..."

"Bobby," I say, dropping my voice.  "Cut the shit.  I swear to God.  Let's just go."

I let go of his arm.  He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and walks alongside me out of the building and into the parking lot.

"I really appreciate this," he says.  "This is...awesome, you know?"

"Yeah, it sure is," I answer.  "I saw a Denny's-type place down the street.  Let's get some breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"Fuck, Bobby.  When's the last time you've eaten?"

"Um..."

"I just drove here all night, you're eating something.  At least have some orange juice."

"How about some coffee?"

"Coffee's the last thing you need."  We get to my car.  I get in, unlock the passenger door, and wait for him to get in.

"Seatbelt," I say.

"Oh, yeah..."

 I reach over and press my hand against his forehead.  He's burning up, and I can feel the bumps of his scabs against my palm.

"Bobby..."

He sighs.  "Look, J.D.?  I need to talk to you.  You gotta help me."

I start the car.

"Look, just shut up, OK, Bobby?  Shut up for a minute."

***

We're soon at the diner in booth against the front window.  I'm drinking my coffee and waiting for my meal while Bobby is taking sips of his orange juice as if it was an alien substance.

"Shit!  That hurts my teeth!"

"I'm surprised you have any left."

We just sit there for a moment or two.

"So, what are we supposed to do now?" I ask.

He reaches over for another sip of his juice.

"Am I just supposed to take you home, drive back, and wait for you to call me again? What?  Seriously."

He sets down his glass and starts turning it around in his hand with his thumb.

"And how are you supposed to get around?  I hope there's a decent bus system here."

He clears his throat.  "Um...yeah.  I've been taking the bus for months.  Ever since I lost my license."

"So why were you driving your car on Saturday?"

"Well...um, you have to promise not to freak out when I tell you something, OK?"

"I can't do that, Bobby.  Just spill it."

He pushes his glass aside, fidgets with his hands, and breaths in.  

"Well, I was driving around and swerving on purpose 'cause I needed to get arrested, OK?" he says, all in one breath.

I drain the last of my coffee.

"You needed to get arrested?"

 

"Yeah, J.D. I'm in trouble, man.  It's really fucked up."

"You owe money to your dealer, is that it?"

"Yeah," he says, sounding surprised that I'd know.  "The guy I get my stuff from?  He used to be really cool, but last week he just flips out on me.  Says if I don't pay him back, he and his boys will kick my ass.  And he'll do it, too.  I heard about this one guy who got his, like, windpipe busted by this guy's fist, and he almost died.  I just...didn't know what else to do."

"I don't understand.  If you wanted to go to jail, why just a stupid traffic violation?  They 

could put you away for a lot more."

"I don't want to go to jail!  I just wanted to be safe until you got here."

"Until I got here?  What does that mean?"

"I need you to...help me. I couldn't think of anybody else."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

"Well...I was wondering if you could go and, um, talk to him."

"What, I'm just supposed to walk up to him and say, 'Oh, Mr. Meth Dealer, I know my brother's a fuck-up, but could you pretty please forget about him?'  What the hell?"

"Well, look at you.  He wouldn't fuck around with you.  Just talk to him.  Unless...you wouldn't be able to pay him off, would you?"

I glare at him and clench my jaw.

"OK, OK.  Jesus..."

My food arrives.  Some sort of omelet with mushrooms and bell peppers.  Hash browns. Sausage.  English muffins.  I'm glad my breakfast came when it did; I was inches away from walking out right then.  Driving back to Anaheim and just leaving him there.  

I reach over for some Tabasco sauce and sprinkle it on my eggs while staring out the window.  I then clear my throat.

"So I assume we can't go back to your place, right?"

"Of course not.  They know where I'm staying."

I glance over at Bobby's glass.  OJ sounds kind of good to me right now, but there's no way I'm touching anything Bobby's drunk from.  I stare at my food for a couple of moments.

"OK," I finally say.  "Here's what we're going to do.  After I finish this, we're checking into a motel, and you're going to stay inside the room while I figure out what we're going to do.  I need to do my laundry, anyway, and while I'm gone, you stay in the room.  Don't even stick your head out the window.  If you do, I'm leaving you right where you stand.  Got it?"

He lets out a sigh of relief and smiles again.  God, his teeth are gross.

"I promise, I promise.  Thank you, JD.  That's all I want."

"Good.  Now be quiet and let me eat."

I take a bite.  I wasn't expecting much from looking at this place, but this is really good.  

The mushrooms are nice and big, and there are spices or something in the eggs.  I'll have to remember this place.