STOREFRONT

Jacob felt a little guilty, snapping at her like that over the phone. He should’ve known, Beth wouldn’t have called at the unholy hour of ten a.m. unless it was something serious.

It took her a few stammering attempts before she could get the story out. It involved Adrian, one of his family’s collection agents, a goon with beady eyes, cool breath, and arms thicker than cement. A thug who’d never concealed his interest in Beth, during those twice-weekly visits to the storefront.

Jacob had broached the subject once, and was assured by Beth that it was harmless flirting. Flirtation that was only going one way. Words she said earnestly and Jacob believed to be true. Beth didn’t even play the “we’re not officially a couple, anyway” card when Jacob asked about the rumors, which he took as another indication of her honesty.

Confronting Adrian about this innocent crush, Jacob didn’t view as an option. Jacob knew he’d rather swan dive from the Sears Tower into a vat of hypodermic needles.

Adrian had been built like an Eisenhower-era refrigerator. Jacob’s physique, meanwhile, resembled that talking skeleton from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Aside from that, Adrian went back decades with the family. Had even played high school football with Jacob’s father.

Like Jacob, Beth was a petite thing. But if she had a hundred more pounds of muscle, that still wouldn’t make what Adrian tried this morning okay.

As Jacob understood the story, what he gleaned from Beth’s panicked message, Adrian had entered the storefront this morning with his routine collections, money Beth knew to deposit in the safe hidden in their back office.

Adrian had also showed up with several shots of Old Forester still wafting on his breath. He made a clumsier than normal attempt at charming Beth, and didn’t react like much of a gentleman when she politely suggested he go home and sleep this one off.

What happened after that, Jacob still wasn’t certain. Beth couldn’t finish the story; all she could do was beg Jacob to get out of bed and try to fix this.

It took Jacob twenty minutes to reach the storefront, a retro-recreation of a 1980s-era VHS rental place. Jacob hadn’t even been alive in the ’80s, but like several of his downtown friends, he adored the aesthetic. Butterfly eyeglass frames, undercut mullets, tattoos of Nintendo controllers and Garbage Pail Kids—there was nothing too gaudy, too neon, for his clique.

His parents put up the money. On paper at least, he was a business owner. It was supposed to be fun and silly. Not anything like this.

The glass door was locked. Anxious, calling her name, Jacob pounded on the metal frame. Beth appeared a few agonizing seconds later, her normally sweet and roseate face now chalky and sick.

“You have to understand, I didn’t want to…” she tried to tell Jacob as she pulled open the door. The poor girl was still in her store uniform; a pink Members Only jacket, white Izod top, and acid-washed denim. An awful contrast, ’80s kitsch clashing with this morning’s ugliness.

Beth kept making sounds, kept indicating she truly wanted to finish this sentence, but she couldn’t get the words out. She needn’t have bothered.

Jacob followed the carpeted path to the first aisle—walked past vintage cardboard displays for Top Gun, Gremlins, and Die Hard—and immediate, seasick revulsion hit his gut. It was Adrian, nearly three hundred pounds of pure dumb brute, splayed dead on the floor.

The gunshot wound was a few inches above his navel. Blood stained the textured pink-and-teal carpeting. Creeping out of Adrian’s body, the blood consumed the carpet fibers as if it had some ravenous desire to turn the entire place red.

Beth was talking again, forming something close to coherent sentences, trying to explain what happened. An icy sensation coursed through Jacob’s veins. The pounding in his ears intensified. But Jacob could piece it together.

Adrian had put Beth in an awful position. Forced her to use the Beretta 92 hidden behind the counter. Too drunk, too consumed with his own ego, to appreciate Beth wasn’t making empty threats.

He’d known Jacob’s father so long, Adrian. Had been like a member of the family.

This corpse seeping blood all over the expensive carpeting had once been the large galoot of a man who gave Jacob piggyback rides during summer picnics. The body stank now—booze and emptied bowels and blood—but once he smelled of Armani cologne and spearmint gum.

From the ceiling speakers came Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Another nauseating contrast, another layer of surrealism over something far too real.

Jacob’s nails dug into his palms. Numbly, he felt a presence against his shoulder. He turned and unintentionally locked eyes with Beth. “Jacob, what are we going to do?” she asked, tears spilling down already wet cheeks.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jacob could only whisper that he didn’t know. He wasn’t equipped for something like this. This store was a joke, a cover for his family’s less-than-legitimate enterprises.

He wasn’t a business owner. Wasn’t any kind of a real man. His parents paid his rent. A laundry service collected his dirty underwear. He didn’t own a socket wrench, had never gotten into a fist fight, had no idea what any of those lined items on his tax forms were supposed to represent.

But he was expected to deal with something like this?

Beth’s questing eyes wouldn’t move from his face. Crystal blue pools of pain and fear, desperate for peace, for some assurance her life wasn’t over.

“We should…I guess I should call my father,” Jacob said after he’d coughed into his fist.

“You’re not going to tell him about…” She turned and wiped snot from her nose. “You’re not telling him that I did this, are you?”

“Oh, no, no,” Jacob said, his voice still distant and stony. He moved towards the back office, made uneven scuffs against the carpet, attempting to avoid the body and its ever-expanding stain of blood.

Shutting the door, Jacob pretended he didn’t see Beth’s swollen, pleading face in the distance. With pale fingers, Jacob dialed his father’s number. He answered on the third ring. A breath caught in Jacob’s quavering throat.

“Son?” asked the rough, low voice.

Jacob attempted to answer. His words were rambling, confused. Eventually, he was able to explain where he was. What was lying on the video store’s carpet.

“Adrian…? That’s impossible. No, no, son. That can’t be true.”

“It is, Dad. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

“In the daylight, in one of our businesses…” There was a groan on the other line, then a brief silence. “You have to tell me, son…” the rough voice continued, anger supplanting the shock. Jacob remembered that his father had far more experience in these matters, a history of these calls. Mourning couldn’t be indulged when work remained unfinished. “You have to tell me who did this.”

“I couldn’t say, Dad.”

“You walked in and found him like that?”

“That’s right.”

“Was it with the Beretta?”

“I think so.”

“Who was last in the store?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t find the schedule?” the rough voice asked, indignant.

“I…it’s…”

“It’s that girl, isn’t it? The one you took to Dickie’s birthday party?”

Air left Jacob’s lungs, like he’d been bayoneted. “Don’t bring her into this.”

“You don’t give orders to me, son. And I’m not tolerating any lies out of you, understand?”

Jacob stayed silent. Knees weak, he sought relief in the nearby office chair. There was a pint of rye in the top drawer, its rich oaky aroma only causing his stomach more grief. Jacob swallowed hard, though, desperate for any salve on his nerves.

“This Beth girl. I’ll bet she thought she was justified. Yeah, I can just see Adrian taking things too far, and some girl who doesn’t grasp concepts like discretion or gratitude…I can see her using that gun and…”

Jacob massaged his forehead and struggled against the misting tears. “Dad, please…”

“You’ll have to deal with her, son.”

He took another pull on the bottle. “Don’t ask me to do that, Dad.”

“You expecting me to take care of this for you?” The low voice released a disgusted, bitter laugh. “Because, God knows, I can’t ever assume you’ll act like a man, can I?”

“I can’t do anything like that. You know this, so, so…”

“Right,” the voice said with a fast snort. “I’ll send Castor over. He’ll come in the van. You keep this girl occupied until then. Can you do that much?”

“Yes…of course…” Jacob muttered, his throat burning from the liquor while the rest of his body shivered.

Of course. He’d told his father of course.

“Adrian…my God, Adrian…” he heard his father growl before disconnecting the call.

Jacob staggered from the desk, steadied himself against the doorframe, then walked clumsily back into the store. Beth had moved past the cardboard displays, past the popcorn machine, to the register area, a vintage oak piece decorated with miniaturized recreations of old movie posters.

“Broken Wings” from Mr. Mister was now playing overhead. Jacob would’ve shut the system off, if he knew how.

Attempting to put on a smile, he asked casually, “Beth, honey, what’d you do with the gun?”

After ducking behind the counter for a second, she returned with the Beretta. Touching the gun again, it caused something to come over her, something Jacob guessed she hadn’t anticipated. With tremulous hands, she handed the piece over.

He checked to ensure that it was empty, then tucked it into his waistband.

“So…what did your father say?” she asked, a quiet dullness in her voice.

“He said not to worry about it.” Jacob moved delicately, joining her behind the counter. “There’s, um, a crew coming.”

“And they’ll deal with the body?” Her face went taut, saying that word. Jacob noticed she’d lost three shades of pink since his arrival.

Gripping her shoulder, Jacob replied, “Yeah. That’s what they do. Obviously, we have to stay here until—”

“He really said not to worry? That doesn’t sound like him.”

Jacob’s muscles tightened. Lying about this made him ill, but no alternative seemed feasible. He had to keep her talking, keep her distracted, until his father’s agent arrived.

“He understands this is, ah, pretty heavy. Doesn’t want us getting too upset.”

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Beth repeated.

But if she could see through the lie, and he figured this was inevitable, Jacob had to think of some other way to keep her inside the store. It was a horrible position for him to be in—and he was cursing that pig Adrian with every breath for creating it—but Jacob consoled himself with the thought it wouldn’t be for much longer.

If he told Beth the truth, did something to stop what was coming, he’d be pissing away his entire life. A life of friends, parties, impeccably styled mustaches, and those fruity Mojitos served nightly at the Boozy Bunny.

He had a signed Drew Struzan Temple of Doom print on the way. Arriving tomorrow, actually. And Wednesday night was the Frogger championship at his local gaming bar.

More important, his apartment. His trust fund. All for a girl who wasn’t officially his anything. Just a hookup buddy in the same circle of friends.

He positioned Beth closer. Squeezed her body as he tried to steady himself, tried to keep his voice level. “We just need to stay here, keep the door locked, and wait for…wait for the right people to show up and deal with everything.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you? Didn’t tell him that I was the one…”

“I didn’t say…he doesn’t know, okay?”

“If he knows—”

“He doesn’t,” Jacob answered harshly, wondering if he should fetch that pint of booze and order her to drink. “Don’t get panicked. Don’t make this worse.”

“If he knows, then I’m dead. It doesn’t matter if we’re…whatever we are,” Beth said, sobs shaking her body. “He won’t let me live.”

“Beth, you’re getting hysterical.”

“You know what he’ll do to me.”

Jacob did know. Maybe not all the specifics, but he knew it wouldn’t be something quick and painless.

No, she didn’t deserve it. No, it wasn’t fair. But his father had a saying: “What did fair ever have to do with anything?”

The overhead speakers moved on to the playlist’s next song. Fleetwood Mac’s “Little Lies.” Jacob made a pathetic attempt to sway along with the music, to distract Beth by cajoling her into a dance.

It’d be their last dance. Tragic, yes. Also necessary.

“I was such an idiot, taking this job. It was supposed to be cute and fun. All our friends were going to hang out around the register. Have popcorn and drinks.”

Her body was fragile paper mâché. Too light, too unsteady to last much longer.

“Oh, Beth. It’s still fun. We still have the popcorn machine. Still have our friends. It’ll be okay.”

She’d been such a tenderhearted, upbeat girl. Living with something like this on her conscience…maybe what was coming was a mercy.

“I just had to look the other way,” she said with a trembling voice. “Just had to file those specific deposits that specific way; do that and collect my bonus.”

Jacob’s father, he’d have to give Jacob credit for at least not screwing this part up. Even if he couldn’t handle the grizzly aspect of it, Jacob still did what was asked of him. The old man had to recognize that much.

“You’re still getting your bonus. It’s crazy, Beth, how worked up you’re getting over this.”

His life would move on. It wouldn’t be easy, but his friend group wasn’t small. There were other girls. Plenty of them.

“Idiot. An absolute, pigeon-headed, braindead idiot. Tell me I wasn’t, Jacob.” She grabbed Jacob’s shirt with both fists. Clutched tight and locked wet, terror-stricken eyes onto his. “Tell me what I know is coming isn’t coming.”

There were other girls. But none who’d ever looked at him with toffee brown hair glued to her face with sweat and petrified eyes pleading for any mercy.

A blow, like something coming from a celestial hammer, struck Jacob.

The thought was absurd—she needed him. Pathetic slacker Jacob Booras was needed. And not just by anyone. Needed by a gentle soul with ivory skin, moony eyes, and no options left.

He broke away. Looked for anything else to set his eyes on. All he could see were those cardboard displays of action heroes past. He could never have those physiques. Could never call himself a hero.

He could hold a quivering girl in his arms. Could keep lying to her, try to take her mind off what was coming.

Or he could grow up. Make a tough decision. Make a sacrifice. Something had to be worth it.

Mojitos tasted great. ’80s kitsch could crack him up. But they never caused his chest to ache the way it was doing now.

“You’re no idiot, Beth. But you’re stuck with one now.” Jacob tugged at her arm, indicated she should join him. “C’mon. We can clear that safe out. And I have three credit cards I can max out before anyone knows anything.”

“And after that?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jacob answered, his jaw set. “Do it like adults.”

Gene Kendall has lived in many places but is usually surrounded by more deer than people. His work explores drama, music, and pop culture with wit and no small amount of sympathy for the losers and also-rans. He’s drawn to protagonists who say the wrong thing, actively resist their character arc, and possibly save the day by accident. His work has appeared in the Saturday Evening Post's New Fiction Friday series, the NoSleep podcast, CBR, Gentlemen of Leisure, and Not Blog X.