Wrong Address

Wrong Address Brandon Terrell I’m pretty sure the package wasn’t for me. The UPS guy had just dropped it off, a small box wrapped in butcher’s paper without a return address. With a finger inside. Female from the look of it. I stared at it over a bowl of Corn Pops that was no longer going to be eaten. The soggy cereal just floated there, while the box with the finger lay open next to it. Huh. It looked real. It was resting in a pile of blood-saturated tissues, crusty and dry and dark red. Sparkly purple polish was flaking off the dirty nail. I wracked my brain, wondering if I’d pissed anyone off enough for them to ruin my breakfast or if I’d slept with any bizarre women who had a funny way of showing their affection. No, I was in a rare dry spell, both with enemies and with women. So clearly, the finger was not meant for me. I closed the box. Dumped the cereal in the drain. Changed out of my pajamas. Combed my hair. And decided to drive to the police station. The box rode shotgun. Every red light I hit, I glanced over, made sure it hadn’t tipped and spilled open, that the index finger wasn’t rolling around my classy Corolla interior. I decided it was an index finger. It had the length and roundness of an index finger, but what the hell do I know? I’m used to seeing a finger in the context of a whole hand. Could have been a pinky, I suppose. The desk clerk at the police station, a pear-shaped woman with thick glasses on a chain, like an old time librarian, nearly screamed when I presented her with the box. “Holy ghost! Is that—is that a…? Well, is it real?” I shrugged. “Guess so. Think so. The UPS guy didn’t tell me. There was no note.” “Please close it.” Her magical, chubby fingers seemed to haphazardly dial random numbers on the cream-colored phone. Her eyes remained fixated on the box. I stared at them, her fingers. Thought about what it would look like if there were one less. “Detective Hanley will be right out. Have a seat.” I sat with the finger in my lap. Read a magazine. Hanley was a tall, wide-eyed fella whose face looked like he was constantly being told he had won the lottery. He had a strong grip. “Call me Chester.” I followed Chester to an office, a cramped, windowless place that appeared to have been recently ransacked. “Sorry about the mess. Controlled chaos. If this place were ever clean, I wouldn’t know where anything was. Am I right?” I nodded. Sat down in a lumpy chair. A spring strained to get free, jabbed into my thigh. Chester sat across the desk from me, reached out, palm up. “May I see it?”

I gave him the box. He sucked his breath in through his teeth, as if attempting to dislodge a wedge of his breakfast from an incisor. He examined the box. Brought it close to his face, and sniffed it. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Really? Sniffing it? Chester set the box between us on the desk, atop a pile of loose paper. His eyes worked me over. “And this was just sent to you?” “Yes.” “You have no idea who sent it?” “No.” “Any reason why someone would send you a finger? Enemies? Scorned lovers?” “None. “It’s not yours?” I held up my hands. Wiggled my digits. “All ten, sir.” “Not what I meant.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, you aren’t the one who chopped off the finger, put it in the box, and then brought it in, acting all innocent and what not?” “I was just eating cereal, sir.” He sucked more air between his teeth. Closed the box. Put it in a plastic bag. Marked the plastic bag. Put the plastic bag in a manila envelope. Marked that. “Should be easy enough to run prints.” He tapped the folder, smirked. I sat there, in that uncomfortable seat, as Chester rifled through his mess of papers, snatched up a form, scribbled down my statement. Finally, he dotted the last ‘i’, tossed his pen with a rattle atop the desk. “Anything else you can tell us?” “Not that I can think of.” “We’ll be in touch.” I shook his hand, massive and cold with hairy knuckles. A heavy pinky ring weighed it down. The desk clerk tried to be nonchalant as I walked out. She was on the phone, talking in hushed tones. I waved. She didn’t wave back. * It was night. I had just finished a delectable meal of Salisbury steak smothered in pseudo-gravy with corn niblets and what was supposed to be mashed potatoes. All right, it was one of those microwave deals. Sue me. I’m a single guy in his forties with no wife, no kids. I pushed back the TV tray holding my empty plastic container with Jackson Pollack-inspired gravy smears, and I cracked open my second Summit. The news was on. Some story about a puppy who followed his family from Ohio to here. Cute. They were sugaring me up for the one-two punch to the gut I was about to get.

“—search continues for Roberta Grubel, twenty-five year old daughter of Rupert Grubel. Grubel is the fast food magnate and owner of the Burger Chomp chain of restaurants.” A photo flashed on screen. A stunning beauty with a wide smile and big teeth. The photo was a self portrait, taken at arm’s length, the camera flash blasting out any sense of depth or definition. Two of Roberta’s fingers were held up in a ‘peace’ sign. I stared at the fingers, mesmerized by them. I pictured one of them resting snugly in a tissue-coated box, bleeding. My stomach did barrel rolls all night, and I could not sleep. Didn’t know if it was the news story or the Salisbury steak. Probably a healthy dose of both. * I was sweaty from work. I mow lawns, chop weeds, and plant flowers for the city. So I was sweaty and smelled like soil and cut grass. I just wanted a shower. I checked my mail on the way in from my car. Bills. Victoria’s Secret coupon. Hardware ad. Blank envelope with no return address. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I tore it open. A crisp, neatly folded piece of white paper was inside. It crackled and partially stuck together as I pried it carefully open. Dried glue. On the paper was a collage of magazine letters formed into words. People actually make ransom notes like this? I thought that was only in the movies. DO WE HAVE YOUR ATENTION? GIVE US ONE AND A HALF MILLION DOLLERS OR WE KILL HER. HARD. AND UGLY. I sighed. Folded the sheet of paper back up, tucked it into the envelope. I suppose Detective Hanley should see this. But I was gonna shower first. * “People actually make ransom notes like this? Thought that was only in the movies.” I was back in Chester’s office. He once again insisted I call him that. Something about Detective Hanley being his father. I told him that didn’t make sense to me, but he only chuckled and shrugged it off. “Spelled dollars wrong. And attention.” I hadn’t noticed that. Then again, I hadn’t scrutinized it at length while holding it up by a pair of tweezers and wearing a pair of gloves. The way Chester was. Chester’s gloves squeaked as he picked up a smoldering cigar from an ashtray shaped like a police badge, made by a kid. He took a long puff, pondering. “I think it has to do with the missing Grubel girl.” He arched an eyebrow, stared me down. “Do you now?” “Just a hunch.” “Well that’s interesting.” “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we haven’t released that information to the public, so how would you know the two were linked?” “Saw something on the news. Figured the two were connected.” “You doin’ my job for me now, Dirty Harry? Like we didn’t figure out that the missing finger belonged to Roberta Grubel.” My friendship with Chester Hanley had hit a rough patch. “I’m sorry sir.” “Go home. Leave the police investigation to people who are trained to do the job.” I stood, offered my hand as a sign of peace. Chester eyeballed it, stood, stretched the plastic glove off his hand until it snapped in a cloud of dry powder, and shook it. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” Behind me, as his office door closed, I could hear him on the phone. “We got another clue on the Grubel case.” * It was dark when I got home. I stopped and rented a movie, some lighthearted romantic comedy with that blonde actress with the great ass. Something to try to take my mind off Roberta Grubel. A van was parked down the street, on the far side of the block. It was under a streetlamp. Not very conspicuous. A man sat inside, sipping from a disposable coffee cup. I waved. At least Detective Hanley had someone looking out for me. * Someone pounded on my door while I was climbing out of the shower. I cursed, grabbed for my towel, stubbed my toe on the rim of the tub, cursed louder, wrapped the towel around my wet waist, hobbled to the door. A UPS truck rumbled away as I opened it. They’d left a package on the step. “Don’t touch it!” I looked up. A man in a Member’s Only jacket, with a prize-worthy walrus mustache and dark circles under his eyes, walked up the street. He was waving his arms. “What?!” “The box! Don’t touch the box!” He dug into his coat, pulled out a badge. Down the block, the door to his van was still open. Inside my house, he phoned Chester. The cop’s name was Glenn. The new box, slightly bigger than the previous one containing Roberta Grubel’s index finger, sat open on my table. This time, the sadistic fucker sent me a middle finger. Also, there was a note. WE WANT OUR MONNEY! TIME IS RUNING OUT! “Same color polish…I don’t know…what was it? Something funny…Catherine the Grape…yeah…”

His mustache wiggled back and forth as he spoke. I couldn’t help but stare at it. I adjusted the bag of melting ice on my foot. I was still in a towel. Glenn had opened the box per Hanley’s request. Sure, there was an element of danger – what if the kidnapper sent a bomb instead of a middle finger? – but I guess that didn’t seem to matter to Chester and Glenn. “I’ll tell him…” Glenn cradled the phone on his shoulder. “Chester’s coming himself. Gonna rig the place up, stake it out tonight. All right?” I looked around. My place was in shambles. I wasn’t really expecting company. “Whatever.” Glenn pulled a mustache comb from his jacket, began to methodically stroke the fine hair under his lip. Every once in a while, he would grunt assent to something Chester said. I went up to put on some clothes, my injured foot leaving wet prints on the wood floor. * Chester sat next to me on the couch. We were watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Chester was loving it, laughing raucously until he snorted. I was uncomfortable. It was three in the morning. “That Lou Grant kills me, just absolutely slays me!” “Uh-huh.” Chester was drinking a tall glass of flat Coke and ice. Sweat beaded on the glass. He took a swig, sloshed some onto his chin, wiped it with his tie. I was onto my fourth beer. They still tasted good, even though I was beyond tired. “Ted Knight!” Glenn’s voice from my dining room. He had made himself at home, set up surveillance equipment, tapped my phone, installed a camera by my front door. “Ted Knight! That’s it! I love that bastard.” I’d had to piss for over an hour, too uneasy with the situation to get up, praying that if I remained still, they would go away. I couldn’t hold it any more. The bathroom was through the dining room, near the front door. I passed Glenn, who was burrowing another hole into his nose with his finger and was too focused to stop as I hobbled around him. My toe was still throbbing. Probably broke the fucker. I got to the bathroom. Closed the door. A window sat over the toilet. Looked down on my side yard, a couple of burning bushes, a row of pines. The moon gave me enough light to piss in the dark and hit the bowl ninety percent of the time. I stared out the window. Maybe I could open it, slither out, escape. They wouldn’t know if I was gone. At least not for a while. A shadow moved. Probably just the wind. Nope. Moved again. With purpose. A hand emerged from the pine, an arm, then a whole torso. I thought about calling out to the boys. Remembered I still had my dick in my hand. Shook it and tucked it.

My movement alerted the intruder.. His head jerked up, looking in the window, like a deer in headlights We made eye contact. He reached behind him, to his waist. A glint of steel in the moonlight as he pointed a gun at the window. “Fuck!” Glass shattered around me. I heard a whistle as the bullet sliced through my ear, cracked the door behind me. I hit the floor, bleeding on the white tile. I could hardly hear. It was like someone had shoved cotton in my ears, was slowly pulling it out. My hearing returned as Glenn pounded on the door, a thunderous sound in the cramped space. “You okay?! You okay?!” I staggered to my feet. Peeked out the broken window. The shooter was gone. There was a commotion around front, two more pops from a gun. Chester’s voice calling for Glenn, yelling for the intruder to throw down his weapon. I popped the latch, swung open the door. Glenn held his own firearm, a small thing, looking frightened. The front door was open, and Chester was no where in sight. “Holy shit, your ear!” More pops outside. “Oh fuck, we need help. Where’s my walkie? Shit!” Glenn began to move for the dining room. “Glenn?” He stopped. Turned. Chester stood framed in the doorway, blood soaking through his pale green shirt. He was using his tie to plug the hole in his stomach. “More than…one…” “What?” “Saw one…around…” The side of Chester’s temple disappeared in a red cloud, spraying against the door. Glenn jumped back, raised his gun. I shielded myself behind him. Chester’s body tumbled to the wood floor, like his bones had been liquefied. His right hand hit last, his pinky ring making a loud crack against the wood. I stared at his finger. All this because of a finger. Glenn rushed clumsily to Chester’s body, leaped over it, slipped on blood, stumbled, ran headlong out the door. Chester’s gun lay on the floor by his side. I stared at it, at the body, at Chester’s pinky ring and hairy knuckles. I hobbled over, scooped up the weapon. I’d never held a gun, never heard the malevolent sound of gunfire this close. The kind of gunfire meant to end someone’s life. The steel was cold. It was heavier than I expected. I needed help. I could hear Glenn out front, trading gunshots with the intruder. In a squat, I duckwalked to Glenn’s giant apparatus in the dining room. Every waddle stung needles up my leg. I grabbed a walkie off my table. Thumbed the side. “Can anyone hear me? Anyone? I need back-up.” Static. Then: “Who is this? Over.” “Chester and Glenn…they’re in trouble. Chester…he’s…he’s dead.”

“Repeat. You’re breaking up. Detective Hanley? Over.” I realized something. The gunshots had ceased. I looked up, basked in the glow of the monitor attached to my security light above the front door. On the screen, Glenn wrestled with the intruder. Suddenly, his chest blew backward, and he fell to the side. I stifled a cry. Glenn was still moving, grabbing his gun. He fired. The intruder’s black stocking cap flew off comically. Not so comically, half his head was still inside the cap. Glenn fell back, sprawled out on my front lawn. I stood up. Thumbed the walkie. “Glenn, too. Whoever’s there, I need back-up. I have two officers down and—“ The equipment exploded in sparks, lighting up the dark room. I dropped the walkie. “What the fuck!? “ It was a high voice, whiny. A man stood in the living room, arms out in exasperation. A port wine birthmark covered much of his face, and his hair flowed behind him in a mullet. Flickers of television light strobed behind him, as Mary and Lou fought about something. I’m sure it was hilarious, just not in my current situation. “Stupid Dale! Fuckhead wasn’t supposed to shoot!” “Please don’t kill me.” “It didn’t have to go down like this. We just wanted the money.” “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any money. You have the wrong address.” “What?” “The wrong address. You have the wrong place.” “You’re not Rupert Grubel?” “Do I look like Rupert Grubel? Do I look anything like Rupert Grubel?” “The hell should I know? I don’t know what the fucker looks like.” “I’m not him.” “Fuck!” The guy began to pace, jabbing his gun toward me for emphasis. I hid my own gun against my side. He didn’t see it. “She told us this was the address. Bitch! Even after we cut off a finger. Two fingers! God dammit! Oh, she’s gonna pay. That conniving little whore is gonna pay!” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper. Showed it to me, pointing at the chicken scratch. “118 Cherry Lane. Right?” I nodded. “Right? 118. Fuckin’ bitch!” “Wait, did you say ‘Cherry?’” “Yeah.” “This is 118 Cheery Lane. Like happy, not like the fruit.” “What?” “Cheery. Not Cherry. You, um, you spelled it wrong.” He scrutinized the paper, held it up to his nose. Slowly lowered it.

Rage was in his eyes. He glared at me, and I felt like a school teacher telling a student they’d done poorly. Well, a student with a gun. He scratched his head with the barrel of the weapon, flakes of dry skin fluttering off his birthmark. Through the open front door, I could hear neighbors yelling to one another, and beyond that, sirens. In slow motion, I saw him begin to bring the gun down, leveling it at me. I felt the heavy weight of Chester’s gun begin to move up, rise from my side like a fucking cowboy in a shootout. His eyes grew wide. Nope, he hadn’t seen my gun. I fired once. Splintered the wood floor. Still brought the gun up. Fired again. Hit his foot. His balance was off. His gun bucked, missed me. Still rising, I fired again. Mary Tyler Moore shattered into a million pieces. He shot. I felt the slug bury itself into my right side, by my abdomen. It burned. I fell backward. But not before firing a last time. A hole appeared in the birthmark, above his right eye. The eye twitched. The gun fell. He followed, landing on top of my defunct television. * I lay in an antiseptic hospital room, courtesy of the local police department and the FBI. My house was a crime scene, swarming with uniforms like an anthill. I had a bandage around my side, from where they dug the bullet out. I also had a broken toe and half an ear, for the record. On television, Roberta Grubel was being led out of a ramshackle rambler, a little dirty, shaking. Her right hand was poorly bandaged, dried blood caked throughout. “—safe and sound. Ms. Grubel’s attackers and police were involved in a tragic shootout last night, at an undisclosed location. Both attackers and officers were pronounced dead at the scene. Identification on one of the attackers led police directly to this home, where Ms. Grubel was found with minor injuries.” Apparently missing two fingers is considered minor. “An informant, who assisted police, remains unnamed.” Unnamed. Fine by me.