Under The Bridge

“You got the shit?” The angry appearing Black man sneered at the dwarf with big mutton chops and one patch over his left eye. They rendezvoused at Monroe Street Bridge. The Hunter’s Moon was full and white and bright; there was no need for streetlights as the satellite showed everything this October night a little after midnight. 

“Why certainly,” Howard said with a phony Chicago accent, but this man wouldn’t know the difference. He held up a book pack that he borrowed from his daughter to do this deal. “Just out of curiosity, who is this for?” 

“Ain’t none of your business!” He snarled back at Howard the undercover FBI agent dressed in jeans and an overcoat with a fedora similar to what Mark normally wore only black. 

“Like I said,” Howard said in a soothing tone to calm both their nerves. “I’m only curious. It isn’t Nick, or Bob is it?” 

“Who the hell you talking about cracker? No, it ain’t none of them dudes. “It’s Bates, okay?” He looked at Howard with suspicion. “You a cop?” 

“No, I’m Ramrod, your neighborhood dealer, making sure neither Nick nor Bob are going to get this. It’s enormously powerful stuff. They couldn’t handle it.” 

“You are a crazy mother fucker man! Here’s the money, take it before I change my mind!” 

“Is it all there?” Howard asked. 

“Five big just like we agreed to over the phone!” 

“FBI you’re under arrest!” Boomed the unmistakable voice of Special Agent Mark Marteau while spotlights drowned out the moonbeam that cast down on them a brief second ago. Hector led four other agents and Spokane narcotics task force officers on them quickly, cuffing both before a shot could be fired. 

“There must be some sort of mistake,” Howard informed the arresting officers who manhandled him into a waiting Ford Crown Victoria unmarked police cruiser. 

“Oh, it’s no mistake, you piece of shit scumbag,” Mark told him as he watched Howard being pushed inside and the back door closed. Hector and Chester got into the front seat and drove from the scene. 

“I say, we got that small fish, but we need the barracuda,” Howard told them. 

“Or the shark for that matter,” Chester agreed. “You’ll still have to play your part in the cell until interrogation.” 

“I’ll try my wonderful charm on him some more.” 

“Who’s Nick and Bob?” 

“Friends I knew when I was growing up in Boston, Hector. Unfortunately, they are no longer with us.” 

“Sounds like a story to me,” Chester goaded Howard. 

“I suppose we have time to tell this tragic tale.” 

“You ain’t going to go all Shakespearian on us are you?” Hector asked with dismay. 

“Perhaps, but it is something I’ll never forget for as long as I live.” 

“Begin,” Chester coached Howard. 

“Very well but be a good man and undo these cuffs until I’m done.” Hector pulled off a side street and into a back parking lot behind a business building. He parked the car while Chester got out, opened the back door and uncuffed Howard who rubbed his hands gratefully. 

“Get on with it already.” 

“Bob and Nick were close friends of mine in college. We were freshmen then and seemed to have the tiger by the tale. I went to Boston College then. Obviously, we imbibed too much and did things I hope my daughter doesn’t do that would keep me up at night. 

“At any rate, all three of us lived in the same dorm. I had plans for majoring in psychology and being a counselor, Bob was a science nerd and intended to move up the ladder to MIT and get his masters and PHD there.” He paused a moment trying to gather his thoughts or relive this memory.  

“Nick, dear Nick was an up-and-coming poet and writer. He was already published through magazines in Boston and New York. We laughed until he showed us the cancelled check from Playboy of a story they published and it had nothing to do with sex but about some lad coming of age. 

“But I digress. The story itself is a tale that I have kept hidden in the deepest and darkest recesses of my mind. It was, oh hell when was it? It must’ve been after our second semester started and we were watching Miracle on Ice at the Olympics in New York. Lake Placid I believe it was.  

“We were all just besides ourselves in an abundance of joy and too many beers, possibly marijuana too. On a whim, we walked—most likely we staggered to the Longfellow bridge at the Charles River. 

I had a jug of wine in my gloved hand, wandering the mostly empty street. It had snowed recently and snow berms as high as Chester were going along the street and blocking my view of my chums who decided to traverse that berm and play king of the hill, pushing each other off and having a grand old time. I naturally stayed below and watched them.” 

“Were they small like you, Howard?” Hector asked still in the driver’s seat. The Ford sedan idling. 

“No, quite the opposite really. I believe Nick was around five-ten and Bob was a tall gangly fellow over six foot. They frolicked and then we saw these rascals down the street coming towards us.  

“I don’t recall who saw who first, maybe it was at the same time. They were quite young, this gang of thugs. They wore their colors proudly displaying Red Sox ball caps worn sideways on their heads. 

“They obviously spotted me first and ran to obviously accost me, but Nick and Bob came down and stood next to me. They stopped on their tracks and began hurling insults at us apparently they were ready for a fight, which was why I never found out. 

“The biggest of this group came up to me and threw me into the snowbank. His friends laughed of course. I was fit to be tied but obviously couldn’t do anything more than use all my strength to right myself up. I then turned around just in time to see my friend Bob land an uppercut to the tyrant’s face and nose, seeing the effect as blood spurted everywhere on the street. Nick took care of the other youth who tried but failed to put up a decent fight. 

“Suddenly a pistol came out and a shot was fired. Bob fell next to me and Nick stood there frozen in place. The gun in his hand. The other gang ran off. 

‘Oh, dear God,’ “Nick shouted out in disbelief. ‘Are you okay?’” 

‘Why are you holding that gun?’ “I shouted at him. Bob was conscious but moaning in pain.” 

‘It’s for self-protection,’ “he told me. He still held the gun, a revolver I believe it was. 

‘Go to the neighbors and tell them to call the police,’ “I told Nick, hoping he’d put the gun down and do what I told him. He ran down the street instead, obviously in a panic about what he’d done. He ran to the bridge.” 

‘Wait, come back here,’ “I cried out to him. By then I finally got myself out of the snow berm and upright looking down at Bob. I immediately assessed his wound. Blood soaked out on his coat and from his stomach. I knew it wasn’t good but figured he would survive. 

“So, I went to the neighbor’s house across the street and banged on the door. An elderly woman in her housecoat and slippers answered the door hesitantly. I asked her to call the police to say that my friend had been shot and needed immediate attention. It was then I heard the other shot coming in the direction of the Longfellow Bridge and the Charles River. 

“I don’t know what she said because I ran back out onto the street and in the direction of the shot, fearing the worse. I got there and didn’t see Nick. I didn’t see anyone. I then ran under the bridge and I then saw Nick, lying prostate on the ground with his eyes string vacantly into the substructure of piers and supports. The revolver lay next to him. A bullet hole was at the side of his head. I knew he was dead. 

“By the time I got back out of that bank and began walking back to Bob I saw the first of many police cars and ambulances arrive, there were emergency lights flashing everywhere. They wouldn’t let me see Bob and I found out the next day he had passed.” 

“Damn, dude, that’s tough,” Hector expressed with sadness in his voice. 

“I’m sorry for your loss too,” Chester said wrapping his big arm around Howard’s shoulder in a comforting manner. He then placed the cuffs back on Howard’s wrists and got out from the back seat, closed the back door and went and sat next Hector in the front seat. 

“There is a silver lining in all of this.” 

“Yeah, what’s that?” Chester asked. 

“A week later I changed my minor from theater to Criminal Justice, realizing I did indeed have a gift for what I’m doing now.” 

“You’ll always be an actor, Howard, as we all are I guess,” Hector told them as he placed the car into drive and whipped out from the parking lot and toward the Justice Center.