Double Bounce

By Chris Rhatigan

When Molly reached the end of the slide, Leo picked up her little body and lifted her toward the sky. She giggled and squirmed and her cedar curls bounced like the springs of a miniature bed. The pain in his lower back from lifting one too many bags of cement kicked in. He set her down and massaged his spine. Even with his back acting up, this was the best way he could think of to spend a grey afternoon. He had no reason to think it would be his last.

She bolted back up the purple ladder, her Keds clinking against the bars. “Again! Again!” she chanted. Every time they went to the park she wanted to go down the slide at least fifty times. Something about kids, they always want to do the same thing.

Then Leo saw him.

Marcus sat on a bench beneath a maple tree. He hadn't changed. Same pencil-line beard from sideburn to sideburn. Same charcoal eyes and nostrils the size of cherries. Even the jacket—shiny as an oil slick—the purple silk shirt and the stubby cigar were the same.

Leo yanked Molly up by the hand. Why did Marcus choose here? Anywhere else would've been better. He led his daughter through an opening in the hedges to the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” Molly asked.

“We have to go.”

“But I wanna go down the slide.”

They zig-zagged between sedans and pickup trucks. No one behind them. Only fifty feet to the car.

“How about we go to Baskin Robbins?”

She didn't respond. Smarter than her father. She knew something was up. Twenty feet to go. Her little legs could only move so fast. He scooped her up without losing speed.

The bench was empty. When'd that happen?

“Daddy, why are we running?”

Ten feet to go.

And there he was. Right in front of him, somehow. Leaning against the hood of Leo's Ford Taurus. Of course Don was near by, slumped over the hood of a beige van, drinking a can of Miller Lite.

Leo set Molly down. “How did you find me?”

Marcus smiled with one side of his mouth. “Long time, no see. You haven't changed a bit. Sure, you might have a house, a kid, and, let's not forget, a new identity, but everything else—pure Leo Digsby.” He gestured with the cigar. “The running away. The shaking during a crisis.”

“Do I have to ask again?” It was supposed to sound defiant. It didn't.

Two swift strides and Marcus stared down at Leo, inches from his face. It was if he was examining Leo, peering into the pores of his skin. Leo tried to maintain his ground, hold Marcus' stare.

Molly shrieked, ran behind her father's legs. Good. Now I have an excuse to break this stupid staring contest.

“There are two ways this goes,” Marcus said. “You cooperate and everything's fine. Or you don't, and we expose you for what you are.”

Leo knew this time would come, yet he wasn't ready for it. He knew a lot of guys who had done it right. They lived alone, darted from city to city, took jobs washing dishes or parking cars. But he had tried to change too much.

“Can't we do this somewhere else?” he asked.

Marcus puffed on the cigar, let it fall to the asphalt and stamped on it. “No.”

Right out of Marcus' playbook. Establish who's in charge early. Leo crouched to his daughter's level. “Daddy needs you to go wait in the car.” She tightened her clasp on his calloused fingertips, but didn't move. He led her around Marcus to the back of the car, dropped her inside.

A waft of cheap cologne and tobacco crept up behind him.

“What do you want? Money?”

“Let's be serious,” Marcus said to Leo's bald spot. “You don't have the kind of money we're interested in. We both know that. But your boss, Mr. Maxwell, he does.”

Leo bit down on his tongue with an incisor just enough to make it sting. Jeff Maxwell had given him a job. He had taught him a trade. He had recently promoted him. Everything Leo had—his family, his home—he owed to Jeff.

Without him, he'd still be using a handgun to make his living.

“How long you been out of prison?” Leo asked.

“Turn around. Look at me.”

He turned and stared at an oil stain on the asphalt. “I can't help you with the Maxwells.”

“C'mon, it'll be like getting the old team back together,” Marcus said. “We need you. You know the code for the gate. You know the roads around here, so you can drive the van.”

Marcus and Don had graduated. No more hotwiring cars or swiping whatever was in the cash register. Of course, Leo had thought of it before. The Maxwells kept a spare key under a plastic rock in the garden. Between the big screen TVs, Lydia 's jewelry, the laptops, there was more than enough to make it worthwhile. It would be so easy.

Still, that didn't make it right. He had housesat for them, gone to their parties. He had watched Jordan and Kiera grow from toddlers to teenagers. They trusted him. He couldn't throw that away.
“How many other people have that code?” Leo asked.

“The housekeeper, the kid from the security company, the daughter's boyfriend. All the people who housesat for them. They'll never suspect you.”

“What about the alarm? You think about that?”

“It's taken care of.”

Leo scratched the back of his neck. “I just don't do this kind of thing anymore. Can I think about it?”

Marcus jabbed him in the chest with his knuckles, like a snake striking its prey. “Oh, so you think you've changed? You don't do this anymore? Well you do now, Digsby. You meet us in the McDonald's parking lot at eight or you spend ten years in prison like Don and me. Your choice.”

He wanted to say something as Marcus left, but he didn't know what. Don was still sucking on that can of beer, sneering at Leo as he watched him squirm.

Leo slammed the door, sank into the driver's seat and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

“Who was that man?” his daughter said.

“He's nobody, Molly. Let's go get some ice cream.”

***

The fact that his wife had cooked dinner gave him a headache. It hammered the bridge of his nose, spread into his cheekbones. How could he lie to her now?

He pecked her on the cheek. “Thanks. This looks great.”

She smiled and the olive skin on the outside of her eyes crinkled. “Figured we could use a home-cooked meal for a change.”

He sat at the oak table that had been handed down through Patricia's family for generations. It had a finish as smooth as velvet and big knots scattered across its top. He loved the craftsmanship, how solid it felt, how it held the weight of hundreds of meals year after year. It contrasted with the kitchen's cheap linoleum floor, which he had wanted to rip up and replace ever since he put a down payment on the house.

Now that he was foreman, maybe he could afford to do it. That is, if he didn't go to prison.

Molly shook around a sippy cup, propelling drops of juice onto a steaming plate of breaded chicken. “Molly—you know better than that. Put it down.”

She did, and he leaned over and sliced the chicken into small chunks for her.

Patricia poured him a mug of coffee. “Molly tells me you ran into someone at the park.”

“Uh, yeah, I used to work for him. I owed him some money, but we settled it.” He added cream and three sugars, stirred it with a fork. “How was your day off?”

Her mouth moved, but he didn't listen. He was running over places he could claim he was going. Maybe he needed a few things at Home Depot. Or he was meeting the guys for beers. No, that wouldn't work. Needed to be someplace he could be alone or anonymous.

Or should he call the cops? Turn himself in. Spare the Maxwells. But if Patricia discovered their marriage was based on a lie—

“Someone's hungry,” she said.

He looked down and found his dinner was almost gone. “Well, keeping up with our daughter there is a full-time job.”

Then his cover story assembled itself in his mind. It wasn't the best, but he could make it work. He wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and snapped his fingers like he'd remembered something important. “I should take the garbage out to the curb before I forget.”

He grabbed the bag from the kitchen can. Drops of garbage water leaked onto the linoleum. He went through the TV room into the bathroom and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulled out three rolls of toilet paper, dropped them into the bag. He went to the garage and hauled the can out to the curb. Streetlights reflected off the puddles that had formed in the streets.

He went back in and finished dinner. “We're out of toilet paper. I was going to run to the store. You want anything?”

“I thought we had a few rolls left?”

“Nope. Just checked.”

“Oh, OK.” She paused. “Could you get a bottle of Coke?”

“Sure.”

He grabbed his keys and his camouflage jacket. He picked up his Carhartt boots, hit them against the doorframe. Dried mud sprinkled onto the worn out welcome mat.

Patricia stood, hugged him, rested her head on his shoulder. Molly sprang from her chair, chanting “Family hug! Family hug!” She wrapped her arms around his knees and squeezed.

This was what he was protecting. The Maxwells could buy more stuff. He couldn't buy another family.

***

There was a time when he savored the ride to a job. He'd work out exactly what he was going to do—what he'd say, what route he'd take, what he'd do afterwards. But this time all he could do was imagine the Maxwells coming home. They'd find the mangled front door lock. Jeff would tell Lydia and the kids to wait. He'd go inside, find lighter spaces on the walls where paintings used to hang and family photo frames smashed on the floor.

Can't think like that . He had to stay focused. He'd have to get back to the parking lot as soon as he could. Then he'd go to the supermarket, make chitchat with the clerks so they'd remember him.

He pulled off the interstate and parked behind a row of tractor trailers. No sign of the van. Fat drops of rain rolled down the windshield. He rubbed his hands together, put up the hood on his jacket.

Two shadows approached from the side of the McDonald's near the gas station. It was Marcus and Don. Why were they coming toward him? He opened his door, leaned out of the car, but Marcus signaled for him to stay.

“Why?”

“Need to talk to you,” Marcus said.

He got in front, and Don went in back.

“What are you guys doing? Thought we were taking the van?”

“Can't. We're using your car.”
“What? Are you kidding me? They have security cameras.”

Don jammed a gun against the back of his neck. So this was what it felt like to be on the other end of a holdup, he thought, to know a slip of the finger could end your life.

“If you want money, I can get money. A grand now and then pay in installments.”

“Drive.”

Leo took the least direct route possible. The pine trees appeared to crowd the sides of the winding road.

He scratched at the edge of his right thumb with his nail until it was raw. This was always what he did when he'd get within a few blocks of Beverage World or Pit Stop or wherever they were going to rob. Ever since he was a kid, his nerves would make him scratch until the blood burst from under the skin.

What from the Maxwell's house could they possibly fit in his sedan? These low-lifes were going to screw him. They wanted to throw away everything he had worked so hard to gain.

“Could you guys tell me what the hell is going on here?” he said.

Don lifted the butt of the gun and came down hard on Leo's shoulder like a hammer hitting a nail. Leo cried out, slammed on the brakes. The back of the car shimmied. The headlights and the double yellow line blurred. He pulled over on a slick patch of grass, breathing fast, shaking. Everything felt far away, like he was looking through the bottom of a glass.

The shiny barrel of Don's .22 automatic appeared fuzzy in the rearview mirror. Don waved it back and forth a couple of times, indicating that he should keep driving. The windshield wipers squeaked.

They came to the intersection of Pheasant Ridge Road , closing in on the Maxwell's home.

“When we get to the gate,” Marcus said, “I want you to say that—”

“Wait—they're home?”

“Shut the fuck up and listen. You say that Mr. Maxwell sent you over to pick up some papers you need for work, that if she lets you in, you'll only be a minute.”

It must be Kiera. Everything else was a ruse—they were using him to get inside. “What are you going to do to her? She's just a kid. I swear to God, if you touch her—”

“Christ, Digsby,” Don said. “Settle down. Don't do anything stupid.”

He grinded his teeth. Settle down. Easy for him to say. But what if he could use his knowledge against them? He knew the house as well his own . And there was that handgun Jeff said he kept in his sock drawer.

They pulled up to the gate, a 20-foot barrier of black iron bars. The rain had changed to a fine mist, which coated the corkscrew driveway and the manicured lawn.

The security camera swiveled and fixed on his car. The damp, cold air settled into his bones as he rolled down the window. Leo pressed the intercom button. Kiera answered. He swallowed hard, rubbed his three-day stubble, and said what they told him to say. She was hesitant at first, then bubbly when she recognized him. The door was unlocked, she said, he should come right in.

As he cruised down the driveway, he saw her silhouette behind the shades in her bedroom. She was on the phone, buzzing back and forth, gesturing with her hands. The thought crossed his mind that she could've passed for Molly in ten years. But it doesn't have to be this way—if he could only find a way to that gun.

“Wait in the car,” Marcus said.
Leo's voice trembled. “You can't do this. I won't let you.”

They ignored him. The motion sensor lights illuminated the stone path to the front door. Marcus nodded to Don, and they burst out of the car, moved swiftly up the path. They disappeared into the house.

Leo waited, kept working on his thumb, the blood dripping onto the car seat. His shoulder throbbed and his back pain flared up. But it didn't matter because he had that feeling. It was the same feeling as pulling an MP .25 out of his shoulder holster and firing a few rounds into the ceiling. The pain and the nerves would soon dissolve in a wash of adrenaline.

This was the one opportunity to follow through on his plan.

He popped the car door open and slinked down the path past the azaleas and the Japanese maple trees. In the back yard was the trampoline, a plastic tarp covering its top. He dragged it across the wet grass to the side of the house.

The chicken and potatoes from dinner rose up in his throat. He wanted to vomit but couldn't. It burned his insides. He ripped off the tarp and threw it into the juniper bushes. With enough bounce, he figured he could grab the side of the second-story balcony.

His legs were like jelly as he walked toward the center of the trampoline. He hopped a little, testing it out, unsure of his footing and of the noise it would make. He looked up—the balcony railing was at least six feet above him. The rain made his footing even less secure.

He jumped once and was surprised when his second bounce gave him an extra lift. The kids called it a double bounce, he remembered. As he ascended through the falling rain, he thought the double bounces of those lazy summer days in his family's backyard were far away.

After a few more bounces, he reached out and grabbed at the railing. His right forearm slid across it until he secured it at the last moment with his fingers, snapping his body back so that it dangled from the balcony. His shoulder screamed and his back twisted. But he forced himself to think about the oh shit look Marcus would have right before he blew his head off. He grunted, swung his legs up and propelled himself onto the balcony.

The long hallway behind the glass was dark, save a shaft of light pouring out of a room at the end. The french doors to the house were open. He reasoned that Kiera must have been out here before it was raining. Probably with that boyfriend of hers.

Her bright voice danced down the hallway as he entered. She was talking about how she had totally bombed a biology test and her parents were going to kill her.

Leo, as slowly as he possibly could, put one boot in front of another on the plush carpet. He tried to tune his ears to any sounds within the house, but heard nothing. The family photos on the walls—Jeff and Lydia on their wedding day, the kids smiling and sunburned after a week of skiing—stared at him, mocked him for his lack of fortitude.

He glanced down the stairway to the foyer by the front door. Nothing. Where'd they go?

“Yeah,” he heard Kiera say. “You should come over. My parents aren't around. Got the whole house to myself.”

He slithered around the doorframe into the master bedroom. Moonlight came through the windows, spread across the four-poster bed and the framed prints of elegant Japanese calligraphy on the walls. Leo rolled out the top drawer of the black walnut dresser, tossing the neatly folded socks to the floor.

There was another set of footsteps in the hallway. Socks struck the carpet rapid fire like it was being bombarded. Where was the gun? What the hell happened to the gun?

Leo turned and found Don's massive shadow wedged into the doorframe. Leo moved to his left Two bright blasts. One hit his shoulder. The other hit his chest. He sank to a knee. There was no air for him to breathe and he collapsed. Blood drained onto the plush carpet.

Don's giant frame hovered over him. “Didn't have to be this way, Digsby. You didn't have to be the hero.”

The barrel pressed against Leo's temple.

The last sound he heard was Kiera's screams.