Lady’s Secret

Flash Fiction by Jesse Binger

I find people.

Skip tracer some like to call it. Bounty Hunter. You’ve all seen the show.

But me? I call myself the Retriever.

Had a golden as a kid. I’d toss her ball after ball. Tennis. Baseball. Those little bouncy spaldeens.

And she’d come springing back within seconds. Dropping her treasure. Getting her reward. A biscuit or two. Sometimes a slice of cheese. For a really exceptional retrieval, maybe a piece of boiled chicken.

Now me. I got my own set of payments. It usually involves a bank transfer into an unmarked in the Cayman Islands. Or on occasion, cold hard cash.

But this time is different. I’m doing it for free. And I never do anything for free.

Brutus is an old buddy from high school. One of those kids you remember, but not really. Just because he isn’t very memorable. Average height. Medium build. Brown hair and eyes. Probably a B student.

He shows up at my crib one night. Little studio above Chan’s Restaurant.

“How’d you find me?” All I ask.

“People talk,” he says. And it’s true.

We eat Grand Marnier shrimp and drink cokes from the can and he spills the beans. His son. Barry. Eighteen. Full of life. Wrong crowd. The hard type. Bad habits. The ones hard to break.

It’s the same story as all the rest. But this one stings. Why? Because I know the kid.

Shit, nowadays everything’s online. But few years back, I read the paper. I don’t know, call me old fashioned, maybe it reminded me of my younger years. When things were different. Calm. Better.

Little tyke on a bike would toss the plastic bag. Landed right on the sidewalk. Every time. Like he had a golden aim.

Caught him once when I was up early. Outside, draining a butt.

“Nice arm,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Sam,” with a wink.

“Barry,” the kid said and then he was off. Pedaling like his house was on fire. Pack of papers stacked so high in the basket he could barely see.

So I tell Brutus yes but get the sad sack story. Divorce. Bitter. Alimony. Child support. Bad back. Fuck the government.

“Pro bono,” I say.

“You can do that?”

“I’m the boss.”

***

So I step out of the OTB. I have betting slips burning in my pocket. It’s a bad habit and I know it, but I can’t stop because it’s in my blood.

Had a grandfather that cashed in saving bonds to throw away on the ponies. A father who used to put his mailing address: Backstretch, Belmont Park.

So it’s inevitable but I’m good, and I’m smart, and I usually make more than I lose. Usually. This week I was in a hole and hoping Lady’s Secret would dig me out.

Meanwhile, I’m on my way to the house. A stash house. Barry’s guys. Old friends. Old crew. Same thing but different.

How do I know all this?

I’m good, did you forget?

There’s the internet. It’ll take you halfway there. For the rest, I got snitches all over Flemington. Junkies, I’ve done good for. Old flames that still burn just a little for me. Cops on the take. They pretend not to know me but when I come by, it’s little slips of papers passed through bated breath. Half-truths that can easily become the real ones if you know how to put the pieces together.

Crossword puzzles. Always loved them. So I’m sitting outside of 14 Bryant Ave in my clunker, a bare bones and simple Honda Civic that just soaks into the scenery. I’m doing a Newsday puzzle. Not online, real live paper that I picked up at Eddie’s Stationery.

I’m halfway through, 32 down hammering a hole in my head when I remember—the race. Check my phone. Lady’s Secret. Down the stretch with flying colors. $18.20 to win and I got her boxed and keyed in exotics galore.

In the black again. And like magic, I see the door open. Two hardliners walk out. One, NBA power forward tall with a giraffe neck in a bright yellow North Face. The other, a brickhouse with a ruddy face, holding one of those Jansports tighter than handcuffs around a fat man.

They walk halfway down the driveway then stop. For a second I think they clocked me but no. Giraffe’s pointing back towards the house. Brickhouse is waving him off. People to see, places to go, right?

They slide into an H2, barrel out like they’re headed to war.

A minute. Two. Coast seems clear so I’m out. I’m picking the lock within seconds. Stash house smells like cat urine and burnt toast. It’s daytime dark, cheap curtains closed like a held breath. I pass through quick careful not to trip on boxes and bottles strewn across the faded wood floor.

There’s a basement. There usually is. Down there I find him.

Barry. Beaten. Lip glazed over. Dried blood across his face. Body’s been banged around so hard he’s half up, half down, leaned against a tall beam.

“Kid, c’mon.”

“Huh?” He says, barely registering.

I haven’t seen him in five years maybe. But it’s the same face, just tighter lines and sunken cheeks. Scars paint a picture across his arms. I grab his hand, squeeze.

“Golden arm. Sam,” I say and his eyes open.

I half-carry him out. We’re crawling down the pathway, Civic right there but not even close when I hear the V8 growling.

Hummer. Stops right in front of my car.

Two dudes out and moving with purpose.

“What the fuck,” Giraffe says. Neck looks even longer when he’s running. Brickhouse is hanging back. I see the glint of metal in his hand.

So I draw. Fast. Take Giraffe out with two to the chest.

Feel a burn on my shoulder. Deep. I knock Barry to the ground. Cover him like I’m back in Iraq.

Then fire two quick ones and hear the gasp and the gush. Big man collapses like a sand castle.

I’m hurting but I drag Barry to the car. Plop him in. I fall into the driver’s seat. Fresh blood covers the vinyl. Hit the gas and we off.

***

The next day I’m dragging when I hear the knock on the door. Cock the pistol on my waist. Always be ready.

Brutus.

“He’s gonna be okay.”

“Good,” I say. “He’s a good kid.”

He turns his head. Can’t even look at me.

“You look like shit.”

“I’ve been better.”

“Listen I wish I had something for you,” Brutus says. He’s just nodding his head like there’s more words out there, he just don’t know where to find them.

I give him a thumbs up and he splits.

It takes me a while but I finally make it to OTB.

That old teller with the dyed hair. More blue than the color she was likely going for but she’s sweet and always tells me good luck.

I hand her the ticket. Lady’s Secret.

Hold out my hand.

I’m waiting…

“I’m sorry, sweetie. There was an inquiry. Disqualified.”

She rips up the ticket.

I shrug. “We get ‘em next time.”

---

Bio: Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His short stories are published or forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree,Punk Noir,Roi Faineant, Close to the Bone, Revolution John, Yellow Mama and others. You can find him at www.jessebinger.com and X:@jessebinger.

Cover Photo by the Author from Unsplash

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