Cement Shoes

by Jack Allen

It was the sound of the water that threw him off. He was out cold. That much he knew because everything was black. It was sweltering hot. He knew that because he was sweating and, well, it was just hot. There was the gentle rocking motion that made him want to stay asleep. But there was still that sound of the water, a gentle lapping sound, that made him want to pee so bad.

Jerry Bondo opened his eyes. He was on a boat, the back part of the boat, with two other guys. They were doing ... boat stuff, as if he wasn't even there. One of them looked familiar.

He looked around. Over his left shoulder, he could see land, but it was a long way off. His hands were tied behind his back, and he couldn't move his feet. He looked down. Why were his feet in a blue cooler full of cement?

He looked closer at the two men on the boat with him, especially the one he recognized, and felt a chill down his spine. It was Ronnie Kalasky. He was on a boat with Ronnie “The Blade” Kalasky. That was bad. Ronnie Kalasky was not known for his frolicking parties.

“How long have I been out?” Bondo said.

Kalasky and the other guy, who looked younger, stopped what they were doing and looked at each other. Kalasky picked up a hammer and tapped the cement that encased Bondo's feet.

“About twenty four hours,” he said.

Bondo chuckled, but it was a nervous chuckle.

“Are you kidding? Cement shoes? Isn't that a little ... Old school?” he said.

Kalasky shrugged. “You kill guys your way. I'll kill ‘em mine.”

Bondo was dripping with sweat now, and it wasn't just because of the heat. His mouth, though, was like cotton. They really meant to do this. He wasn't a good swimmer to begin with, even without all the extra weight.

“Look. Look. I'll tell ya everything I know. I swear to God,” Bondo said, and his voice cracked.

Kalasky shook his head. His lower lip stuck out. He was coiling up rope and putting it in a storage chest under the bench seat.

“No more of your stories, Bondo,” he said.

“C-Come on, Ronnie. No stories, I swear. I'll-I'll tell you where I stashed the diamonds,” Bondo said.

Kalasky and his younger friend stopped and looked at each other. Kalasky tossed the coiled rope into the storage chest and let out a deep breath.

“You just said the secret word,” he said.

Bondo's eyes flicked between him and the younger guy.

“I did?”

“Riegert told me should you say that, I gotta let you go,” Kalasky said.

“Those are the breaks, dude,” the younger guy said with a shrug.

Bondo blinked. He wanted to bubble with laughter.

“He did? I did? I mean ... I can't believe my luck. So you're gonna let me go?”

Kalasky and the other guy looked at each other and laughed.

“Sorry, Bondo. We're just messin' with ya. I already found the diamonds,” Kalasky said.

He nodded at the younger guy. They each picked up one side of the blue cooler.

“Wait! Wait?” Bondo shouted.

He went over the rail of the boat and into the water.

Kalasky wiped his hands on his jeans. They were covered in cement dust. There was no satisfaction like finishing a job.

Parker, though, was leaning over the rail, staring into the water where Bondo went in, where the ripples from his splash were still spreading across the surface of Lake Erie . He bent over and threw up into the water.

“First time you ever killed a guy?” Kalasky said.

Parker nodded and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Kalasky reached into a cooler on the pilot's chair and pulled out two cans of beer. He tossed one to Parker.

“Don't worry about it. I puked my guts the first time I whacked a guy. I'll never forget him. You get used to it. Just gotta put a few more whacks under your belt,” he said.

Parker nodded and opened his beer. He chuckled.

“What?” Kalasky said.

“Cement shoes. Old school. That's funny,” Parker said.

They both laughed and drank their beers.