the sound and the echo

THE SOUND AND THE ECHO

A gun blasted, rumbling through the hot, humid afternoon. It had been quiet besides the hum of air conditioners across the valley. Frank had not paid his electricity bill in two months. He was afraid to run the bill up. He was lying by the open window, on the sofa. Had anyone heard?

As hot as he already was, he felt himself get hotter. It crept up his neck and erupted on his forehead in sweat. Then he heard voices, and his heart started thumping in his ears. Maybe if his heart were not jumping in his ears that way, he would be able to make out what they were saying. They sounded angry and were getting closer.

"Messy business, but it had to be done," Leo grunted, swiping at the beads of perspiration on his forehead while they crouched behind the thick, wild hedge at the edge of the lot. "The Boss demanded his payment, and that drug debt wasn't clearing on its own."

Vinnie avoided looking toward the house, focused instead on tucking a short-barreled pistol into his pants. "Doesn't matter. The guy was a snake. I thought he'd break before this. You figure he actually blew all that dough on some woman?"

Leo gave a brief, sharp laugh. "Must've. Looking at this place, he wasn't exactly living in luxury. He probably imagined he could win her over with the money he owed to us."

"Well, he isn't winning anyone over tonight," Vinnie whispered, sending a small rock skittering into the weeds. "What happens when he misses their date? Does she call the cops?"

"She won't bother," Leo replied, turning toward the idling sedan. "She'll just assume he found someone prettier and skipped town. A guy like that is easy enough to swap out."

Frank thought that he might have a heart attack. His whole chest was pounding, and he felt as if he could not get enough air. He was absolutely wracked with anxiety toward the thought that he was an absolute ear witness to a neighborhood murder. He even thought he knew who they had killed. In his late twenties, thin, people in and out until recently. Lately, there had only been a woman around his place. It was quieter.

Maybe it would be a lot quieter over there now…

He heard a car pull away after the short conversation, and he was sure they had no way of knowing that he had heard. He was never the type to get involved, never a do-gooder, but they had shot spotters in the crappy neighborhood that Frank could afford. Sure enough, within minutes, there were cruisers positioned at the corner and canvassing the neighborhood to investigate.

Frank’s chest was so tight it felt laced-up and squeezed. He got up and hid in the bathroom with his lunch: one glass of milk, a 1.5-ounce bag of chips, and one roast beef and Swiss on rye with mustard sandwich. He ate quietly and quickly. Halfway through his sandwich, he heard them knock. They weren’t very stubborn about it, and they quickly moved along to the neighbor. He remained in the bathroom a good, long, and paranoid hour until he came out. He was basically evading the law. Again. This time it wasn’t even his doing, but he just didn’t want to walk back into a courtroom.

It felt familiar but hideous to wear the weight of lies. He saw no harm in it, though. The neighbor was already dead, and he was essentially stealing drugs. His days were numbered, living like that. If it weren’t those two guys, it would be another two just like them. Ironic that they felt their victim was so interchangeable to a woman, but they were hired guns.

The police were all around the neighborhood, but Frank had a date. He had 30 minutes to come up with a way out of the neighborhood without answering questions. He was an obvious liar and always had been. It was a part of his reputation, and a part that he was proud of. He was in the habit of staying out of things, staying quietly, but not really lying. That crossed a certain line beyond avoiding. Frank took a shaky breath, preparing to make his break, when the sudden, violent screech of tires tore through the humid air. He froze. Through the sliver of window above the sink, he saw the sedan—the same one—careening back around the corner, only to slam to a halt as a patrol cruiser blocked the narrow street.

Leo and Vinnie were back, trapped.

The air shattered. It wasn’t a single blast this time; it was a rhythmic, violent cacophony of gunfire. Frank collapsed to the tile floor, curling into a ball, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten on the counter. The police were shouting, their voices distorted by the metallic echo of return fire. Bullets chewed into the siding of Frank's house; he heard the sickening thud of lead hitting wood, the shattering of the kitchen window, and the sharp, hot whine of metal skipping off the foundation.

It lasted for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of pure, unadulterated terror where Frank’s only thought was that his house—his shitty, decaying sanctuary—was going to be his tomb. He didn’t think about the law or the drug debt; he thought about the dust motes dancing in the crossfire light and the way the walls shook with every volley.

When the firing finally stopped, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thumping of police boots and shouting commands, Frank didn't wait. The neighborhood was in total disarray, cruisers swarming the intersection, officers screaming for cover. It was the perfect, chaotic screen. He scrambled out the back door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and sprinted through the overgrown alleyways.

He didn’t look back. He made it to the cafe, sweating, jittery, and smelling faintly of drywall dust. He was twenty minutes late, his shirt clinging to his back, but he saw her waiting at the table. He straightened his collar, pasted on his best, most practiced "I’m just a guy who got stuck in traffic" smile, and walked over. He was a survivor, after all.