Page 101 of Dirty Beasts: Chance

I spit into the grave, and it smacks onto the wood with splat, a splotch of white. It’s not enough.

Without thinking, I unzip and cut loose a stream of piss onto the casket. It’s chilly enough that my piss steams.

There.

I roll my hand to gesture for the operator to resume.

“Like that, huh?” the man says; he’s older, short salt-and-pepper hair, thick salt-and-pepper stubble, wearing a baggy pair of dirty jeans and a ripped, stained Patriots hoodie.

I just nod.

“I was overseas when my old man croaked, but if I’d’a been here, I’d’a pissed on his grave, too.” He resumes filling the grave.

I watch until Dad’s grave is filled, and then I turn away and walk out of the graveyard.

The rain is cold, slanting sideways, cutting against my face and neck like wet knives.

I like it. Suits my mood.

I reach a road big enough to have taxis after several minutes of walking, and I give the driver the address. I still know it, even after ten years of absence. I can feel the taxi driver’s sense of awe as he pulls up to the huge wrought iron gate.

“You live here?” He’s a Southie, I can tell from his accent.

“Used to,” I grunt.

Robert told me the code to the gate, so I hop out and punch it in; the huge black gates—ten feet tall with spear-like spikes at the top—swing inward. I hand a hundred-dollar bill to the driver and head through the gates without a word or backward glance. Another code from Robert gets me into the garage.

The sea of cars is, honestly, impressive. Dad was a serious collector. The garage is more of a temperature-controlled warehouse than a garage, containing at least fifty highly collectible, extremely expensive classic cars—the first six cars I see equal at least a million dollars.

I walk between the rows of gleaming, polished metal, touching a hood here, a fender there. Mercedes, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Pagani, Hispano Suiza, BMW, Ford, Chevy, Dodge, AMC…there’s something of everything, and each one is most likely rare in some way.

The car that catches my eye is an Aston Martin DB5—silver, just like James Bond drives in several movies. That’s the one.

There’s a locking key box on the wall near the door to the house, with another code. I find the right keys after some hunting. Fortunately, the DB5 is near the doors, so I don’t have to do any tedious rearranging.

There’s nothing in the house except bad memories and old nightmares, so I don’t bother going in. I just pull the Aston Martin out and close the door with the clicker I find in the glove compartment. The gates open automatically as I approach, and close behind me.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I put the monstrous old house in my rearview mirror. I blank my mind, just like in the bad old days, when I had to do something unsavory for my former crime syndicate employers. Don’t think about Mom. Don’t think about that last fucking phone call.

Blank mind.

Just drive. Out of Boston. I don’t know fucking where. Don’t care. Anywhere but here.

* * *

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* * *

I’ve leftMassachusetts behind and I’m somewhere in Pennsylvania—the sticks. Farmland. Miles of barbed wire and clusters of cows grazing. Hayfields. Silos. The occasional little farmhouse, with an old barn, one of those lights hanging from the electrical wire over the dirt driveway.

I fill the gas tank at a gas station so old and behind the times that it doesn’t even have pay at the pump. I grab a package of beef jerky, a liter bottle of water, and a Styrofoam cup of old, bitter, burnt coffee.

Keep driving.

Blank mind.

No memories, no thoughts. No feelings. Fuck, please god, no feelings. Feelings are toxic. Feelings are the enemy. Lock that shit down tight, way down deep inside a box. Wrap the box in chains and padlocks, and toss it into the Marianas Trench of my cold, black, bitter, broken soul.