She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,251

all the nastiness that probably came in contact with the plastic prior to me today.

Dunk dropped into the seat on his side of the thick glass and picked up the telephone receiver. “Tell me again, why did I turn myself in?”

“Because you’re a good guy at heart, and one day you’ll get out of here, completely rehabilitated, and you’ll open a taco stand down by the river and make something of yourself.”

“I’m not sure tacos have enough of a profit margin.”

With Dewitt Matteo at his side, Dunk turned himself in August 13, 1998, about one hour after the horrible events of that night came to an end. I actually tried to talk him out of it. Not because I didn’t think it was the right thing to do. I simply didn’t feel he was in the right state of mind to make such a decision. We didn’t find a single live person inside Carrie Furnace. Nearly his entire crew perished with David’s final command. If anyone survived, Stella’s implosion finished them off. Dunk was completely in shock. He was alone. He told me he had already been working with the feds to take down Rufus Stano. I had no idea. Stano was one of the few people Dunk answered to and considered a much bigger fish than even Duncan Bellino in the eyes of the authorities. Because of his cooperation, he received a shorter sentence. He had three years remaining but would be eligible for parole in another month.

“Stella and the kids say hello.”

“Hello back.”

A nasty bruise peppered the left side of Dunk’s jaw. When I asked him about it, he shrugged. “I wanted to watch The Big Bang Theory last night. I was in the minority. Happens.”

“One month to parole, buddy. Best to keep your head down.”

A guard leaned in from the hallway. “Five minutes!”

“Shit! Sorry, man, I got here late.”

Dunk shrugged, “One month to parole.” He moved the receiver to his other ear. “That reminds me, I had a weird visitor last week.”

“Who?”

“Willy Trudeau.”

“Willy?”

Dunk nodded. “He said he has a job for me when I get out.”

“A job doing what?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Careful with that guy. I never trusted him.”

“Yes, Mom.”

There was something I wanted to ask Dunk about, a subject I avoided for over a decade. Stella brought it up again last night, said we needed to know the answer if Dunk was going to be around our children. “Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t need a prom date, and you’ve already got a lovely lady at home.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am, too.”

“Pickford, he said your mother was Penelope Maudlin. One of the people who got the shot along with our parents. You’ve never talked about her.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Do you remember her?”

Dunk pursed his lips and looked down at the counter. “Nope.”

“Not at all?”

He shook his head. “It was always just me and Pops. Until you showed me that old yearbook, I had never even seen a photo of her. Pops didn’t keep none of that stuff. I figured it hurt him to talk about it, so we never did.”

“One minute!” the guard shouted.

I leaned in closer toward the glass and lowered my voice. “She got the shot, but your father didn’t.”

Dunk leaned back in his chair, a big grin filling his lips. “And you’re wondering if I can do something? Like you, Stella, Darby, or that Pickford guy?”

“I’m only asking, because if it’s something dangerous and you’re going to be around the kids, we’d like to know.” That came out wrong, and I tried to backtrack. “We’re not worried you would ever do anything to hurt them. We know you wouldn’t. It’s just, if you can do something, we’d like to know what it is.”

“Jack Thatch, the boy who couldn’t die, and his faithful sidekick, Dunk.” He grinned. “There’s a comic book in there for sure.”

“Can you do something?”

“Time’s up!” the guard shouted. “Disconnect all calls and exit here to the left. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Dunk?” I said into the receiver.

Dunk smiled and hung up the phone on his side.

He got to his feet, his bulky body balanced on that silly pink cane.

I tilted my head and frowned. Then I hung up the phone.

Dunk’s eyes grew wide, and he grinned. He held up his index finger.

I watched as he touched the receiver on his side of the cubicle, just a tap.

All the pay phones behind me began to ring at the same time.

I turned to look at them.

One of the guards picked one up, said hello, shrugged, and hung up again. The phone continued to ring.

When I turned back to Dunk, I caught a flash of his orange jumpsuit as he left the room and disappeared down the hallway toward his cell, the heavy metal door swinging shut behind him.

August 8, 2020

Forty-Four Years Old

1

The little boy peered over the back of the booth in his parents’ favorite restaurant, in his parents’ favorite California seaside town. He twisted and squirmed, until his mother finally gave up and let him stand on the bench seat and look out over the back into the next booth, at the man sitting in that booth.

“What happened to your face?” the boy asked.

Not polite at all. Not the kind of thing you ask a complete stranger. Particularly when you have the remnants of macaroni and cheese all over your own face.

The man looked up from the menu. He had decided on the catch-of-the-day, and smiled. The shear act of such a thing seemed painful, tugging at his ruined skin in such a way that must have hurt. If it did, though, he didn’t acknowledge it.

The man pointed at the ruined side of his face and shrugged. Then, with a series of complex hand gestures, he answered the boy in what was known as ASL, or American Sign Language.

The boy bit at his lower lip and frowned.

He didn’t understand.

The uneducated youth.

Today’s children knew only video games, social networks, and streaming media. Gone were the days someone opened a book and took the time to learn something new, to better themselves, to achieve a greater intellect through enlightenment. Perhaps if education awarded points, the younger generation would consider dusting off a book. If they could easily level up with a cheat code stolen off the Internet, they may take interest.

The man held up a finger. He dug his smartphone from the pocket of his windbreaker, draped over the empty seat beside him.

He opened an app, typed a message, and held the device near the boy’s little macaroni-and-cheese covered head as he hit the PLAY button.

A human-sounding voice read the text aloud with near-perfect intonation and pitch, nearly indiscernible from a real voice. “I am a beautiful man.”

The boy thought about this for a second, then nodded.