It Dies with You Read online

  IT DIES

  WITH

  YOU

  A Novel

  SCOTT BLACKBURN

  To my wife, Tiffany, the best fighter I know.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was bouncing at Red Door Taproom on a Friday night in January, which all but guaranteed that I’d be earning every last cent of my paycheck. My boss, Brent Thompson, had come up with this “genius” idea to kick up a little winter business: two-dollar drafts on Fridays. It was his weekly counterpunch to Shooters Pub across the street, which had bigger TVs and the best live music in town. For the most part, the lure of cheap beer worked. What that usually spelled for me was fireworks in some form or another.

  That night, I was working the downstairs bar, a room the fire marshal claimed could safely hold one hundred and twenty people. But it felt more like three hundred bodies were packed together, separated only by clothing and sweat. Despite the crowd, things had been pretty uneventful for most of my shift, and I aimed to keep it that way. I hadn’t been bouncing for long, but I prided myself on being able to spot potential trouble, redirect it before it grew into something bigger. Sometimes I could see it in people’s eyes, their body language.

  Around ten o’clock, a group came through the door that sent up all sorts of red flags. Four meatheads, drunk out of their minds, with various asshole calling cards: tight T-shirts despite the cold; shitty tribal tattoos; lats flared out like silverback gorillas. They shouldered through an ever-swelling horde, and when they passed by me, I offered a friendly nod to a couple of them. I hoped to establish a casual rapport, but neither nodded back. One of them even sized me up. It’s something I’d grown used to. At six feet, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, I looked more like a tennis player than a boxer with fifteen professional bouts under his belt. Even the beard I’d recently grown didn’t seem to score me any intimidation points.

  I was keeping a close eye on the silverback crew, watching their endless parade of fist bumps and Fireball shots, when Sabrina, one of our bartenders, came by carrying an ice bucket jammed with Miller Lite bottles. She had a look on her face I knew all too well.

  “You good?” I asked.

  “Some prick just grabbed my ass.”

  “Which one?”

  After a conga line of a bachelorette party stumbled by, Sabrina indicated a bald guy in jeans, a blue and white flannel. He had a couple inches on me, and at least fifty pounds of the corn-fed, country-boy variety.

  “The dude dressed for a hoedown?”

  She nodded.

  I stayed cool. I maneuvered my way through a group of drunks, and when I reached the guy, I put my hand softly on his elbow and leaned close. “Think it’s time you tabbed out and called it a night, sir.”

  He yanked his meaty arm away and took a step back, nearly knocking down a frat-boy type who was too shitfaced to notice. “The hell are you talking about? I just fucking got here.”

  The slight slur of his words assured me that Red Door hadn’t been his first stop of the evening. “You can’t put your hands on our staff,” I told him. “That’s the quickest ticket out the door. Now pay your tab and let’s roll.”

  “Your staff?” He laughed. “You mean those skanks with shorts riding up their ass cracks, rubbing their titties up on everybody when they walk by? The hell out of here, bro.”

  “If this is the way you want to play things, fine by me. You had your chance.” I whistled to get a bouncer’s attention. Threw up a hand signal when he looked my way: pinky and pointer fingers up like bullhorns. Time to wrangle a dickhead.

  Greg was born-to-be-a-bouncer big. Me and the ass grabber, put together, big. He parted the crowd with the grace of a juggernaut and made his way over.

  “This gentleman giving you a problem, Hud?”

  “He’s just leaving. Can’t seem to keep his hands to himself.”

  The man said, “That’s cute, calling your boyfriend over here because you can’t handle the job yourself. Hell, I thought maybe you were banging Daisy Dukes over there. Guess I was wrong.”

  Greg winked at me. “I got this one.” He grabbed the man’s arm, and he wasn’t so gentle when he turned him toward the closest exit and began escorting him out. The guy tried to break free of Greg’s grip a couple of times, like a bratty kid being dragged from the toy section at Walmart, but his attempts were fruitless.

  He jerked his head back toward me. “Let me at least pay my tab, asshole. My card is at the bar!”

  “I already gave you that chance. Twice. You can pick your card up tomorrow when you chill out.”

  Greg got him to the door and gave him a firm nudge to the sidewalk.

  The man turned, angry as hell. He painted the air with middle fingers, started hurling insults at the both of us. I thought “Twiggy” and “Biggie” was pretty damn clever.

  Greg blocked the door and crossed his arms, snarkily grinning at the temper tantrum. Not a good move on his part, a little too casual—a chink in his armor that the man took advantage of with a swift kick to his balls. Greg dropped to his knees. Quickly, I shielded him from another kick, which my left rib cage took the brunt of. I caught hold of the doorframe and pushed myself upright. The man took a few steps back onto the sidewalk and got into a fighting stance. His version of a fighting stance, anyway. His legs were barely spread apart, knees locked, hands too low.

  “Come on, bitch!” He beckoned me with his lead left. “Your boyfriend can’t save your ass now.”

  Just like that, we’d become a spectacle. Half a dozen awe-faced drunks were dammed in the entrance behind the mountain of Greg, who was still hunched over, searching for breath that was surely minutes away. College-aged kids walking the sidewalks with pizza slices and jumbo to-go cups stopped and stared. A group waiting to get into Shooters Pub jockeyed for a better view. At least a few people had their cell phones out, aimed our way.

  “This is the last time I’m warning you,” I told the man. “Best leave while you’re ahead.” While I was speaking, I’d raised my hands in feigned submission and slid my right foot back to steady my base.

  The man shed his flannel and tossed it onto the hood of a nearby truck. He made a show of cracking his neck and his knuckles, then settled into his clunky stance. I’d learned early in my boxing career that even good fighters usually signal, inadvertently, that they’re about to throw a punch. A twitch of the shoulder, a swivel of the hips. This guy may as well have been holding up a sign: “Here comes a haymaker!” His eyes got big, he stepped heavy, and he loaded a right hook that came like a telephone pole. I ducked under it, pushed him to create some distance. When he found his balance, he squared with me again and swung a looping left that I dodged as easily as the first.

  “Are you done yet?” I asked. “This is getting embarrassing.”

  I shuffled back, but he charged, ducking his head in an attempt to tackle me. I shifted a quarter turn, parried the oncoming train with my arms, and let gravity do its thing. He slid across the pavement like he was stealing second.

  I leaned over him just as he rolled himself onto his back. I noted the road rash on his forehead. “That’s going to sting like a son of a bitch in the shower.”

  His bleary eyes seemed to focus. With what energy he could summon, he spit, catching the side of my neck. I shrugged, using my shoulder to wipe it away, then clinched his shirt with my left as my right fist tightened.

  “Fucking chill, Hudson!” a voice came from behind me. My boss’s voice.

  I released the guy’s shirt and stood.

  Brent yelled to the onlookers: “Show’s over! Everybody go home!”

  One of our bartenders struggled to help a green-faced Greg to his feet. Brent led me around the building to a side entrance for employees. He told a young barback was
hing pint glasses to get lost when we got inside. Once we were alone: “The hell did you just do, Hud?”

  “What do you mean ‘the hell did you do’? That guy just assaulted three of your employees, Brent. He grabbed Sabrina’s ass, kicked Greg’s nuts through his throat, then kicked the shit out of me.” The mention of the kick immediately registered the pain in my side that adrenaline had mostly warded off to that point. I held my hand against it and winced.

  “So you decided to handle your business on the sidewalk? Damn, man. You know you can’t do that shit outside our property. As soon as you step out that door, it becomes an issue for me. How many times did you hit that guy?”

  “I didn’t hit him.”

  Brent stared at me. “Dude was on the ground and had blood on his face. What do you mean you didn’t hit him?”

  “His drunk ass fell face-first on the sidewalk is what I mean. I didn’t lay a hand on him.”

  Brent seemed to recalculate the scene in his head. He ran a hand through his slick black hair and then crossed his arms that were sleeved in a collage of colorful tattoos of koi fish and pinup girls. “Well, you were about to hit him. And you know how that shit would’ve ended.”

  “I wasn’t going to hit that dude,” I said, not entirely convinced that I wouldn’t have, had he made the wrong move.

  “I’m not going to debate this. I just need you to clock out and go on home, cool your jets.”

  “Come on, man. I’ve got two more hours on this shift. I need the money, and you need the bodies. Place is packed. I’m fine.”

  “Haven’t your fists got you in enough trouble this year?”

  I winced but tried to keep an even keel. “That’s not fair, Brent.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but you need to go, Hud. Now.”

  I grabbed my jacket from the coat rack and made it to my ’99 Cherokee in the back alley, then drove to my buddy Danny’s shitbox apartment a few miles away. For months, I’d been sleeping on a pullout couch in what used to be Danny’s office, pathetic as that sounds. I was months shy of thirty, working at a bar and couch surfing, thanks to a boxing suspension that had dried up a chunk of my income back in the summer.

  Danny wasn’t home—he was staying at his girlfriend’s house in Walkertown, as usual. I liked Danny just fine, but I was glad to dodge the convo about why I was home so early. I went to the kitchen and dug a bag of frozen corn from the freezer, a bottle of Buffalo Trace from a cabinet. I sat at the kitchen bar, held the bag tight against my ribs, and poured myself four fingers of liquor. My ribs hurt like hell, but I’d taken enough body shots to know they weren’t broken. I hoped a drink would take the edge off the pain and settle my nerves.

  I took slow breaths while the liquor ripped hot trails down my throat. With every sip, the drunk man’s SportsCenter-worthy skid across the pavement became increasingly hilarious. I laughed as I raided Danny’s fridge, searching for something to soak up some of the liquor before calling it a night. I decided on some leftover lo mein noodles I’d gotten earlier from a strip mall joint called Golden Wok.

  I was hardly two bites in when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Had a feeling it was Brent, calling to give me more shit. I laid my fork down and dug my phone out.

  The caller ID read “Dad.”

  I refocused for a second—my dad hardly ever called me, and he certainly never called me late at night. I thought it must’ve been a mistake; maybe he was drinking too, had dialed the wrong number. Maybe even a butt dial. I ignored it and put my phone down, but as soon as the missed call notification popped up, the phone vibrated again.

  Again, it was Dad.

  I couldn’t land on a single good reason why he’d be calling. I picked my phone up, considered answering, but decided against it. I didn’t have the patience to deal with any more horseshit, especially from him. If it was something important, he’d leave a message or send me a text.

  But no call or text ever came.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the morning, another call awakened me.

  I rolled over and crawled my fingers through the carpet, blindly feeling for my phone. Since it was early on a Saturday, I thought it might be one of those creepy-ass robocalls that had been harassing me for months. Always from a different city I’d never even visited, usually the same type of message: Hello, Mr. Miller. This is so-and-so, just returning your call about that ten-thousand-dollar-a-month opportunity you inquired about …

  Robot or not, I was primed to tell the caller to shove that ten thousand a month up his or her prerecorded ass until I saw “Flint Creek Police Department” on the far too bright screen. Now I was curious, so I answered.

  A man’s voice asked if he was speaking to Hudson Lee Miller. I gave an affirmative grunt, wondered why the guy included my middle name.

  “Mr. Miller, my name is Travis Watson, I’m an officer for the Flint Creek PD.” The line went temporarily silent. Before I could muster a response, he said, “Typically we prefer to deliver this type of news in person, but seeing as you don’t live around—”

  “News?” I sat up on one elbow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father was involved in a violent altercation this morning, Mr. Miller.” The officer cleared his throat. “Maybe altercation isn’t the right—”

  “Is he okay?” I asked, remembering the unanswered calls from the night before.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Your father was the victim of a shooting. Down at his salvage yard. He … uh … well, there was no pulse when the paramedics got there.”

  Now I was fully up, but the cop’s words were snagged in the cobwebs of a slight hangover and early morning brain fog. I asked the officer to repeat himself.

  “The fellow that works for your father, Charlie Shoaf, got to the salvage yard about a quarter till eight like he usually does and found your father near the front desk, facedown and unresponsive. Had blood coming from his head. Most certainly from a gunshot wound.”

  This time, the words took full effect and almost paralyzed me, like a left hook to the liver. “Somebody shot him,” I managed. A statement. A question.

  “Once. From behind as far as we can tell. And as far as the why of it all, could’ve been a robbery gone bad. Mr. Shoaf found the cash register wide open, empty as the Lord’s tomb. Back door of the place was left open too.”

  I swallowed hard and closed my eyes and whispered “Holy shit,” and then I asked, weakly, if my stepmom, Tammy, knew yet.

  “Reckon she does. Chief Coble headed out to her house just a little while ago.” There was another voice in the background, muffled words like the receiver was covered. “You’re still living out in Greensboro, correct?”

  “Greensboro. Yeah.”

  “You might want to head on down to your father’s house. As soon as you’re feeling up to it, of course. The chief will try and clear up any questions you might have.”

  Jesus H. Christ and I’ll be there shortly, Officer, were on the tip of my tongue, but I mumbled something that was neither of those things, and ended the call with a sudden realization: I don’t have a dad anymore. I imagined Dad’s body lying on blood-soaked concrete. An armed intruder, masked, emptying the register and bolting out the back door. Disappearing.

  A murderer. Not the half-a-pack-a-day Marlboro Reds, the microwave diet, and bottom-shelf whiskey that I’d always expected to be the reaper at Dad’s door.

  I’d more than halfway been expecting a bad-news call of sorts. Not from my dad or the police, but from my stepmom, who had called six months before, and over a year ago before that, to tell me about the heart attacks Dad had suffered. It seemed inevitable that he would have another that would do him in for good. And why not? Far as I knew, he never pumped the brakes on all that smoking and drinking after the first two.

  In light of the gunshot, none of that seemed to matter anymore.

  But why did he call me last night?

  I stood from the sleeper sofa, off-balance, feeling like shit, rib
s throbbing. I found an Advil bottle on the floor, dumped four pills into my hand, and swallowed them dry. Four was the magic number I always took after my boxing matches, but they were barely down my throat when images of Dad’s dead body flickered again. The concrete floor. Blood filling the cracks. I rushed for the trash bin next to the closet and purged a stomach’s worth of liquor and lo mein.

  In the bathroom, I swished mint Scope and turned my phone to silent. I brushed some beard whiskers off the counter, lay the phone facedown next to the sink. In a little town like Flint Creek, news spreads fast; with Facebook and the like, it’d be a miracle if half the state didn’t know by noon. I wasn’t ready for any calls of sympathy and shock and questions I couldn’t or didn’t know how to answer.

  I showered hot, sat in the tub with my knees tucked in as water gathered in my hair, trickled down my cheekbones. I’d barely spoken to my father the last couple of years, had barely gotten along with him for most of my life, but I felt I should be crying. I almost willed myself to cry—scrunched my nose up, pinched my eyes shut—but there were no tears. Just shower water. I dug my thumbs into my temples and tried to knead the pulsing whiskey aches away. Maybe I was in too much shock to cry, maybe the tears would come later.

  As I got out of the shower, the thought came again: I don’t have a dad anymore, trailed by another thought: I never had much of one anyway. Shitty, to think a thing like that, but it didn’t make it any less true. Even in my haze, it was easy to remember the last time I’d seen my dad—at one of our infrequent meetups that never served much purpose on my end of things but maybe soothed some sort of paternal guilt on his. We’d met two days before Thanksgiving, at a Greek-owned restaurant near Flint Creek called Zeto’s. Subs and country cooking and everything between. A place we compromised on because I didn’t want to eat at the gaudy diner where Dad knew every waitress by name and bust size.

  Dad had been particularly negative that day. Bitching about my refusing to talk politics during our strained conversation; bitching about our waiter who was young, Middle Eastern, and overwhelmed with a holiday rush. He or a cook had messed up Dad’s order—mushrooms on a cheesesteak that didn’t belong—so Dad stiffed the kid on a tip. I called him out on it as we were getting ready to leave, told him it was an asshole thing to do. I tossed a five-dollar bill on the table that may as well have been boiling lava on Dad’s head.