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Mr. Sparks by SF Johnston
(Installment TWO of FOUR)
The police department's Ford Coupe was parked in front of the bus station. Joe and Bobby dashed through the rain and threw themselves inside. Bobby hadn't been in very many cars, and the strong smell of the leather seats surprised him. Joe removed his hat, shook the water off it, and placed it on the seat between them.
"You hungry, Bobby? Sorry, I should have asked right away…you must be hungry."
"No sir," said Bobby. His butterflies had disappeared, but the encounter at the station had left his stomach feeling leaden and sick.
"Okay. Guess it's been a long day, huh?" He slicked back his hair with his right hand and his face turned serious. "I'm sorry about your mother," he said.
"Thank you, sir," said Bobby, trying to keep his voice from trembling. A bead of water ran down Joe's nose, formed a ball at the tip, and then fell into his lap. Bobby's eyes started to sting.
"What's––." He stopped as Joe put a hand on his shoulder.
"Ah, Jesus kid," said Joe. "Don't listen to those people in there." He tilted his head toward the station, and a jagged fork of lightning appeared through the window behind him. It took a few seconds before a peal of thunder rumbled through the town. "Bobby, the thing of it is..."
"Where's my father?"
Rain clattered against the roof of the car and hissed on the street outside. Joe thought for a long while before he spoke.
"Bobby, let's say there's a cop…a good cop. And he wants to catch some bad guys. And he wants to catch these guys so bad that he starts to do some bad things himself."
Bobby nodded.
"And then say that this cop kind of gets carried away." Joe removed his hand from Bobby's shoulder and looked out the front windscreen. They were on Auburn Avenue––the main route through Carmine––and rain was pouring off the striped awnings of the storefronts that lined the street. "Kills some people he shouldn't have killed."
Bobby felt a darkness descend upon him. His throat tightened, and his eyes began to sting again, but he would not cry. Not in front of Joe, not in front of anybody. His mind reeled sickeningly to an image of Ralph walking slowly toward his mother swinging a bar of hard, homemade soap tucked into the end of a long, dirty sock. He watched the arc of the soap as it whistled through the air, heard the sickening thud as it hit his mother's face and saw her head snap back as she gasped in pain.
"Maybe they deserved it," said Bobby quietly.
Joe raised his eyebrows in surprise, and sat back a little. "No, Bobby. I wish I could say that was true. I really do. But he went too far."
Joe ran his hand through his hair again.
"Listen, Bobby. Your father isn't a bad man. When he made the decision to…I mean…sheesh, this is hard, Bobby. What I'm trying to say is, well…it's a complicated situation."
"So my father's at the prison," said Bobby. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah. Yeah he is," said Joe, looking relieved that Bobby had said it first.
"And we have to see him there."
"Yeah."
"Who's Mr. Sparks?"
Joe watched rivulets of water snaking their way down the window. "Do you know what capital punishment is, Bobby?"
"Yes." He'd wished it on Ralph many times.
"Well, Mr. Sparks is an electric chair. Hasn't been used here in years, but…"
"Tonight?" This time it was a question, and Bobby heard his voice waver as he said it.
"Yeah," said Joe. The word came out as a long, shaky sigh. "A lot of people are real mad at your father, Bobby. Not everybody, but enough to make Carmine a real mess right now."
Joe and Bobby were silent with their thoughts for a few moments, until a sudden burst of static made them both jump in their seats.
"Jesus!" said Joe. "That thing's been in the car two months, and I'm still not used to it."
He reached over and pushed a button on a black metal box that was clamped under the dash. It had a red metal plate that had Motorola Police Cruiser written on it. The static subsided and was replaced by a woman's tinny voice.
"Car three. Please report to the station. That's car three to the station, Joe." Joe pressed the button again, and the box was quiet.
"Bobby, I have to go see my boss for a minute. Then we'll go see your father."
***
The station was an old freestanding red-brick building a few blocks north of Auburn Street. It was dry and well lit inside, and Joe led Bobby up a set of wooden stairs to a large, open room on the second floor. A policeman sat at one of four desks arranged throughout the room, his facial bones so angular that they appeared to be trying to escape the skin that covered them. He was leaning back in a brown wooden swivel chair, his feet up on the desk, reading a magazine.
"Mark," said Joe as they entered. Mark ignored him and flipped a page of his magazine. Bobby saw him clench his teeth, the muscles of his jaw flexing.
At the back of the room, under a picture of President Roosevelt, was a door with Chief Fontana stenciled on the frosted window. There were two large windows on the right wall, and a door on the left wall that said Dispatch on it.
"Mark," said Joe, louder this time. Mark slowly raised his head and looked Bobby over with an expression of distaste.
"You know," said Mark. "That kid kinda looks like you, Joe." He twisted his thin mouth into a lopsided grin. "You leave a little present at Henrietta's Henhouse back before we shut her down? They been raisin' this little feller out back?"
Bobby's belly turned to ice. What was wrong with these people? "What did you say?" he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh, look," said Mark. "Look, it speaks." He was still grinning. "What, the Henrietta thing? Nah. I make it a point of honor never to make fun of whorehouse brats." He chuckled low and mean, and then returned to his magazine.
"Shut up Mark," snapped Joe. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about––as usual––so try to be a normal human being for once in your sorry life and shut the hell up."
There was a sudden movement from inside the office at the back of the room. Mark took his feet off the desk and sat up quickly. The office door burst open and a small, husky man wearing a dark blue suit vest over a starched white shirt came out.
"Joe," he said, glowering. "There you are. Get in here." The man gave Bobby a cursory glance. "Alone." He retreated back into his office, and Bobby heard him slam the drawer of a filing cabinet.
Mark snorted.
"Mark," said Joe. "I'm going to leave this young man with you for a––
"What you're going to leave is your badge and your Colt .38," said Mark. "With the Chief. It's official. You're out of here."
"Look," said Joe, ignoring the comment, "just keep your mouth shut and just look after him, will you?"
"Look after him your damn self," said Mark, putting his feet back up on the desk. He began picking his teeth with the nail on his little finger.
Joe shook his head. "Here," he said to Bobby. He pointed to a chair across from Mark's desk and Bobby sat down. "Don't worry. He's all mouth. I'll be right back out."
As soon as Joe shut the door to the office, Mark snapped his magazine shut and looked up.
"Who are you, kid?" he said.
"Bobby."
"Ah, I was just kiddin' about Henrietta's." He smiled broadly, but his teeth were too big, and his eyes were dead. "Where are you from, really?"
"Atlantic City."
"Well, Bobby from Atlantic City, you sure picked a hell of a night to be roaming around town with Joe."
"Sir?"
"Mr. Sparks. They're bringing him out of retirement. Frying a cop who used to work right here in this station." Mark pointed to the desk nearest the Chief's office. "He sat right over there." Bobby imagined his father sitting there, handsome in his uniform.
"Although," said Mark, jabbing his thumb at the window, "might just as well tie him down on Main Street and let Mother Nature finish him off. Could fry him and drown him at the same damn time."
Bobby felt himself tense.
"Yeah," Mark continued. "Havin' themselves a regular old cookout. You know, they did a guy called Seaburn a couple of years back over at Sing Sing. That's where they usually roast ‘em, you know, but their damn chair broke, and that's what technology gets you. All's you need's a damn rope." Mark shook his head, and Bobby felt the knot in his stomach grow.
"Anyway, like I was saying, Seaburn took forever. Something went wrong with the electrical current, or they didn't put the thing on his head right, they never did come out with the whole story. But from what I heard, he was screaming and burning for a long time before it was over. And of course the reporters made a big deal out of that, but hell, that wasn't the worst of it."
Mark grinned, obviously pleased with his story, but Bobby noticed that while Mark's mouth was smiling, his eyes were probing him.
"The leather strap they tied over his face? It slipped. The edge of it almost sawed his nose clean off."
Bobby's stomach turned over. Mark laughed. "Seaburn. What a bastard he was, do you know that he––"
Mark stopped suddenly as the Chief's voice started to rise in the office behind them.
"You have who outside?" the Chief shouted "Tonight? Christ, Joe. With his father up at the prison about to––what the hell are you thinking bringing that kid here? The whole town is crying for blood."
Joe responded in hushed, urgent tones, but Bobby couldn't make out what he was saying. He looked away from the door, and saw that Mark was staring at him with a mix of fascination and horror.
"Oh, really." Mark sat up straight and took his feet off of the desk. "You're Drake's son?"
"Yes sir," said Bobby.
"Well I'll be damned." He let out a low, soft whistle, leaned back and put his feet on the desk again.
The Chief's voice boomed from inside the office. "I don't care if his mother is the queen of the god-damned Nile, you can't just––"
Joe's hushed tones could be heard again, followed by what sounded like a fist pounding a desk. "She what? Jesus!"
Mark looked back at Bobby, and Bobby saw the same glint that he had seen in the ticket agent's eyes at the bus station, and in Ralph's eyes more times than he could remember.
"Kid," said Mark, grinning. "This town hates Robert Drake." The malevolence in Mark's expression was all too familiar, and Bobby knew he was in for a ride. He wanted to do something to stop it, but Mark was big. If Bobby started something, he would lose. He always lost with Ralph. Despite the adrenalin pumping through him, he remained very, very still.
A shade of confusion passed across Mark's face, and Bobby understood that Mark was starting to wonder why he wasn't getting a reaction.
"I mean we're talking about a hate approaching biblical proportions here, Bobby." Mark's tone was taunting now. He wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted, that much was clear. He picked up a pencil and started tapping it against his leg. And then, slowly and steadily, Mark began to laugh. It was a raw, guttural sound and it clawed at Bobby's mind, clouding it. A few days ago he had been with his mother––despite everything, she had been his mother––and now she was dead, and this town was awful, and they were going to kill his father, and they hated Uncle Joe, and they hated him, and they were laughing at him, and then suddenly Mark wasn't there anymore.
Ralph was sitting at the desk, making that awful braying sound that served as his laugh. He had his feet up, and he was wearing a policeman's uniform, ready to jump up any minute and start beating him, wearing clothes he had no right to wear. The uniform his real father wore. And there was Bobby just sitting down, waiting to take it, sitting there in a town full of Ralph's while this Ralph tapped his favorite broken pool cue against his leg and waited…just waited for Bobby to let down his guard.
Bobby lunged for Ralph, grabbing his ankles where they were crossed on the desk and lifting them up with both hands. As his hands made contact his mind cleared a little, and Ralph became Mark again, but Bobby was too far into it to stop. He flung Mark's legs to the side with all his strength and Mark slid sideways out of his chair. The magazine flew into the air and Mark's tailbone slammed against the hardwood floor. Mark threw back his head with a howl of surprise and pain and the back of his skull connected with the hard wooden seat of his chair. His jaw snapped shut and his teeth crunched down through the soft, fleshy tip of his tongue. Blood sprayed out of his mouth in a fine mist.
Bobby stepped around the desk to where Mark was struggling to get up and stomped on his right shinbone with the heel of his shoe. Mark yelped through bloody teeth and turned on his side, grabbing wildly for Bobby and missing. Bobby stepped quickly out of reach.
"Don't you dare," said Bobby, his voice clean and bright.
A flash lit up a stand of elm trees outside the windows, and this time the thunder exploded immediately, rattling the windows. Bobby snatched the magazine from the floor, ripped it in half along the spine, and threw it on top of him. "Don't you dare laugh at my father."
Mark shook his head in disbelief, and struggled to get up. He was favoring his good leg, and he brought one hand up to the back of his head and the other around to his backside.
"Why you little –" he began, and then winced. He ran his ruined tongue around the inside of his mouth and grimaced.
The office door opened and the Chief came out first, followed by Joe, holding his hat in front of him. His gun and nightstick were gone.
"What the hell!" said the Chief. "Mark, for Christ's sake, keep it down out here." He went back into his office.
Joe, sensing that something wasn't right, moved quickly between Mark and Bobby. Bobby was flushed and breathing heavily, and Mark had a pained expression on his face.
"What happened? Bobby, did Mark do something to you? I swear to God, Mark, if you did anyth––"
"No, sir," said Bobby. "Mark didn't do anything. He fell. I was just helping him up. I think something's wrong with his chair."
Joe looked like he didn't believe a word of it.
"Mark? That right?"
Bobby saw Mark thinking. He'd been thrown to the floor by an eleven year-old, and even if it had been a fluke, it had still happened. He could go after Bobby, but with Joe there, what was the point. And if Joe knew the truth, then the story would chase Mark around for years. Bobby had given him a way out, and he took it.
"Piece of damn junk," he said, kicking his chair and wincing again. "Got to talk to the Chief about that." Joe looked at him curiously. Then he spotted the torn magazine on the floor, picked it up and held out the two pieces, one half in Bobby's direction, the other in Mark's.
"And this?"
Bobby and Mark were silent.
"And is that blood on the floor?"
"Bit my tongue when I fell," said Mark, averting his eyes.
Joe waited a moment, looked curiously at Bobby, and then threw the two halves of the magazine on the desk.
"All right then. Mark, if I never see you again, it will be too soon."
"Not if I see you first."
Joe's eyebrows rose uncomprehendingly for a moment, then shook his head and led Bobby out of the room.
"Look, Bobby," he said, stopping at the top of the stairs. "The Chief says if we show up at the prison at 9:30 we can see your father. That means we have about 45 minutes. You must be hungry by now. Sure we can't get a little food inside you? I know a great place. In fact, I even know the cook!"
Bobby couldn't imagine eating. But fearing that the alternative might be sticking around the station, he decided to play it safe.
"Sure. I guess."
"Okay," said Joe with a warm smile. "Let's go to Fay's."
TO BE CONTINUED... (Installment THREE appearing in Winter 2007 Issue) SF Johnston © 2007 |
