My Ship Comes In, Excerpt 10: “Na na na na, hey hey, goodbye”

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My Ship Comes In, Excerpt 10: “Na na na na, hey hey, goodbye”

April 8, 2022 by T.K. O'Neill

“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded collection of three short crime stories and this longer story. Ebook available here.

CHAPTER 6

The van is where I left it, no other cars around. But still I’m nervous. Once the VW is running, I feel a little better. Slowly, I chug out to the highway, thinking about bolting. The headlights cut through the blackness and raindrops flash in the beams. Little silver stars float around in my vision like fireflies. Tires splash as I turn onto the access road. It’s like I’m watching the whole scene from a distance and somebody else is driving.

Now the driver cuts the lights and bounces down the dirt road that’s turning slippery and muddy. Sometimes it’s hard to see the road so he has to drive slowly. Has to flip the lights on a couple times for an instant, just to make out the direction. It seems brighter the closer we get to the water. We spot the lantern light and park. It’s about a fifty-yard walk through the dunes and I’m thinking about gators and snakes the whole way. I step out onto the beach and see Bagley’s standing there cradling the Browning twelve-gauge, a weird look in his eye.

I ignore him and walk over to the pack, squat down, heft it and stand up, but not without some pain and effort. My bad leg is back to being bad. I look over at Dan and he’s glaring at me, mouth all twisted up. But behind the glare, he seems weak and shaky.

“You coming along, Dan? You’re not still hung up on my little joke are you? Just manly hijinks, right? Think of it as payback for jumping on my wife that time. Remember? I thought you deserved a little payback for that. And for a half dozen other fuckin’ things I could name, come to think of it. Turnabout is fair play, they say. And we’re old buddies, right? You said it, man. Can’t hold a grudge, can we? It’s you and me against the world now.”

His lip curls upward into a sneer and his eyebrows tighten.

“You coming?” I ask again, starting to walk with the pack on my shoulders.

“Heh, heh. Shit, you joker… you had me going, you prick. Jesus… ha-ha… goddamn… I-I-I’ll stay here and gather up the lanterns and things. We can’t afford to leave anything around that might identify us.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.”

I trudge back through the wiry underbrush. Sharp spines sting my shins and sand clings to my shoes like cement. The pack digs into my shoulders. I get to the van, slide open the door and throw in the pack. On the return, I follow my path. When I get to the beach, all the lanterns and the fire are out and Bagley is nowhere to be seen. I peer down at the water; thinking maybe he’s gone to get rid of the dinghy. I take a few steps in that direction and hear something moving in the brush behind me. I turn in time to see Bagley running at me, the Browning held high above his head like a war club.

I freeze for a second, then charge. He swings the butt of the gun at my head but I duck under and throw a cross-body block. My hip slams into his middle and he tumbles back in the sand, losing his grip on the gun. He wriggles out from underneath me and crawls across the clinging sand, straining for the Browning. I struggle to my feet and jump on him, coming down with both knees on his back. I throw two hard punches to the back of his head and jump off, grab the shotgun by the barrel and sail it down the beach like a hammer thrower at the Killer Olympics.

Bagley just lies there muttering and rubbing his head.

“You fuckin’ asshole, Bagley. I really should kill you. You’re so fuckin’ pathetic you deserve to die.” I spit at him and slump back toward the brush.

Now he’s crawling after me, whining, pleading: “Don’t leave me here, Keith. You need me. Schmidt needed me—but he would never admit it. I showed him though, didn’t I? I outlasted him. I won. Keith… Keith…” eyes begging like a whipped dog. “It’s just you and I now. We can live the good life like we used to dream about. Think about it. You can have half… I’m sorry. Please help me. Please understand.”

I start to walk away and my foot hits something in the sand. I look down and see my wooden club from earlier. From before all this commotion came and ruined my nice quiet beach. Before this lying greedhead came in and tried to fuck me over one more goddamn time.

I watch Bagley get to his feet. I watch as he jerks an opened Swiss Army knife from his trouser pocket and lunges at me. Dodging the thrust of the knife, I dive to the sand and grab the hunk of wood. I come up swinging.

I dodge another clumsy knife thrust then bash his forearm with a downward swing. The knife falls to the sand; he grabs his arm, falls to his knees and howls like a scalded cat. Breaks down crying again, a pleading, pitiful sound.

Horrified, I bash his head until his face resembles a rotting melon. The rain pours down. It seems a bit like old times. I’m back on the merry-go-round and it’s still spinning.

Na na na na, hey hey, goodbye.

His head is pulp as I drag the body down the beach and put it into the dinghy. I pull his funeral boat out into the ocean until the water is chest high then loosen one of the air valves. The boat hisses softly at me as the burial at sea floats southward. I cross myself. And I’m not even Catholic.

But I’m thinking that now I might need religion.

Instead, I have cocaine—way too much of it—and miles to go before I sleep.

The amazing thing is; I believe I can get away with all my crimes. The sailboat is gone. If ever found it will more than likely be written off as another pirate attack, merely a statistic. The eventual beaching of Bagley’s bloated body will only confirm these suspicions.

I find it difficult to accept—but it seems like I’m home free. That is if you consider being alone in a vehicle with enough cocaine to get you murdered and robbed or sent to jail for the rest of your life, home free.

In this type of situation, one can become dehumanized. What you become is a reaction, an instinct. Running just to keep from dying. Eating just to keep from shaking. Sleeping because you can’t do anything else. Killing, because it’s your best choice.

And so, I get back on the road, feeling a vast spiritual hole within me. I’m growing very tired of my continuous spiritual dilemma. Just doesn’t relate to my reality anymore. Too much of the same old metaphysical crap: Jesus or Buddha or Gita or what-the-fuck-have-you. Stuff can be such a pain in the ass. Seems like there should be something else to believe in that I haven’t gotten around to yet. But in the meantime, before I figure out what that is; I will place Chance as the executor of my fate. Pure random selection. From now on, like a spider with a web, I will take what comes along and thank the Fates for whatever it might be. Isn’t that truly The Way?

(End of Chapter 6)