Once Donnie and I got to my brother’s house, we were only a few hours away from Daniel Halpert’s murder deadline.
When I walked up the driveway, I noticed - with disdain - that the same, broken-down go-cart was sitting in front of the porch. The go cart hadn’t run for years, and yet my brother had somehow convinced himself it was some sort of vintage antique meant to be displayed. He’d won it in a raffle about a decade ago and per usual, after its untimely death, it landed on the very long list of crap he would never, ever get rid of. It was as if the guy believed broken belongings would spring to life again one day, and he didn’t want to be the sucker who’d gotten rid of them too soon.
That go cart represented so many things I was angry about and I stared at it seething. It was then I spotted the golf bag over Donnie’s shoulder. Without thinking, I approached Donnie and took out the driver. I walked back to the go cart and really went at it with all the strength I could muster. No…I wasn’t going to pay my brother the kindness of knocking on his door. Instead I’d deliver blow after blow to his go cart until he came out, like an insect from under a rock.
Donnie watched somewhat horrified; clearly beginning to regret the family drama he had stumbled into. Everyone’s family is crazy, sure, but on this particular week mine was no doubt raising the bar.
My arms were shaking as the driver continued to dent the metal. I noticed the club was beginning to bend, and become misshapen. At that point the prodigal son came running out of the house, screaming at me to stop.
I slowly turned to him.
“You’re alive?!” I mocked, feigning shock.
My brother stopped in his tracks, remembering he was supposed to be dead. That was when we looked at one another in the eye for the first time in awhile. After a long, awkward silence he invited me in for a beverage so he could explain, as if hospitality or an iced tea made up for extorting his own sister. Then he told Donnie to stay put.
“This is between her and me.” He said, threateningly.
Frankly I think Donnie was happy to be sidelined on this one. He settled into the broken go-cart like it was a chaise lounge.
The minute I sat on the couch inside, my brother accused me of trying to get the estate for myself way before he had the idea to. I asked how the hell he figured that. And that’s when he launched into something he’d clearly repressed for years:
My brother revealed that he has never trusted me. Not since I lied to him one time that the prize we found in a Cracker Jack box was worth more money than a silver dollar we discovered lying in the road. He believed me and I got the silver dollar. I racked my brain, barely remembering the memory. Then, once it came to me, I reminded him that I was 8 at the time and just wanted something shiny.
Apparently it’s not just old hunks of machinery my brother holds onto.
He explained our relationship wasn’t the same after that. He’d seen my true colors. I pointed out that he was leaving an important part out: Dad had eventually intervened and shown us that that particular silver dollar was a random year, low mint grade and not worth more than ten bucks. Dad gave us the same value in cash and we split it on candy and ice cream. As far as I was concerned, we were even after that and no harm was done. But my brother said it was about the principle of the matter.
“What does any of this have to do with sending a psycho to extort Dad’s estate from me?” I asked him, plainly.
I guess in the weeks leading up to my Dad’s death, because of his distrust, my brother had had me followed by someone. His “investigator” had caught only pieces of Donnie and I’s conversation wherein I hired Donnie to play Mr. Green. He’d relayed to my brother that I was going to have Donnie act like our estate lawyer who’d let us know our dad had left the estate to Daniel Halpert. So my brother figured if I was going to try to swindle him out of the estate, then take it as my own, he’d outsmart me and do it first. That’s when his whole idea for hiring his own Daniel Halpert and faking his murder came about.
I stopped him right there.
“I was never going to swindle you.” I said.
“Then what the fuck were you going to do?” My brother asked.
“It was just a prank. I was trying to shake you up. I figured you’d freak out and I’d tell you a week later.” I replied.
My brother stared at me, baffled. He didn’t get the joke. In a way I wasn’t surprised, he’s always had a shit sense of humor.
“That’s a shit prank.” He said, clearly pissed off.
I insisted it was a great prank, there was no denying it. But I went on to tell him none of this mattered anyway. First of all there was a real Daniel Halpert out there who’d sent his condolences.
“Of course there’s a real Daniel Halpert,” my brother said, amused. “You think you invented him out of thin air? The guy visited us once when we were kids. Dad had a picture of the two of them in his study.”
So it was true what Donnie said: The Daniel Halpert narrative was just recycled crap from my brain. In a way I was disappointed, for once I’d thought there was something distinguishing me from the rest of my family. But no, none of us had ever been creative.
I moved on and told my brother that Dad was - in fact - bankrupt. I’d spoken to Steve Benedict. My brother needed to call off the psycho he’d hired to play Daniel Halpert. I only had a couple hours before he came to kill Donnie and I. I explained this guy he hired seemed like the type that would actually murder us, even on an acting job…just for sport.
“…the guy seems unhinged.” I finished.
And this is when I knew something was wrong. My brother’s face went pale, and he looked as if he was about to vomit.
“What?” I asked, and got him some water.
“He’s an ex-convict.” My brother responded, slowly.
“Jesus you know how to pick them.”
My brother shook his head, “you don’t understand. I’m in real trouble. I promised him $10,000 dollars from the estate to do this job. If Dad’s bankrupt and there’s no estate to pay him from we are both done. His name’s Frankie Stowe. He was a hitman for the mob. Then he served time for killing his wife and Mother with a kitchen knife. When they asked why he did it he said they ate his cool ranch Doritos.”
I gaped at him, not knowing what to say. Where did he find these guys? He couldn’t have picked someone who did time for theft or assault and battery. No, my idiot brother had to go with Nebraska’s Joe Pesci.
At that moment we heard a gunshot from outside. We ran out onto the porch. Frankie Stowe’s ears had been ringing.
He stood over Donnie who was lying on the ground, clutching his now very bloody thigh.
“He shot me! He fucking shot me.” Donnie whimpered.
“Consider yourself lucky it wasn’t your kneecap.” Frankie said.
Then he turned to us, ascended the steps and asked what was going on: He’d come to see my brother and what the fuck were we all doing here? How’d Donnie and I know my brother was alive?
He got in my brother’s face before I could answer.
“You trying to pull one over on Frankie Stowe?” He spat.
I stared, wondering why tough guys always talked in the third person. My brother explained everything that I just had. I winced at the bankruptcy part. And then we all watched Frankie, a little hopefully.
Surprisingly, Frankie smiled at the irony of it all…
“Oh. Well fuck me.” He answered, a little lightly. Then he chuckled to himself, “What a story, right?” He continued, gruffly.
My brother and I glanced at each other, surprised. Frankie continued to laugh. And then my brother started to laugh a little. And then I started to laugh so then we all were laughing. Except Donnie — he was still crying.
Frankie was basically guffawing through tears now and for the first time in 24 hours I had some hope. This had all just been one big clusterfuck; a misunderstanding…
Frankie patted my brother on the back and said, “In that case uh…I’ll take 12 grand instead.”
Our laughter stopped.
Frankie stared at us, suddenly very serious, through teary eyes.
“…Because I don’t give a fuck.” He continued, menacingly, “I did a job. Now pay me.”
I excused myself to try to help Donnie, whose leg was now drenched in blood. I took my button down off and tied it tight around his leg to try and stop the bleeding. The poor guy: He was just another actor who’d been desperate for a job.
Then I spotted the clubs next to Donnie. I told Frankie the Ford factoid and that they had to be worth at least $15,000. Frankie walked over and inspected them, then asked why the driver was bent. I made up a story about Edsel Ford’s temper, which he seemed to buy. But he still wanted them appraised by someone, then sold before he let us off the hook. My brother said he knew a guy, and we all piled in a car to drive to Lincoln’s finest shop for American antiquities. I insisted on dropping Donnie at a hospital, but our human version of Cujo wouldn’t hear of it. I was beginning to get worried Donnie was going to lose a leg.
We left Donnie lying in the backseat and headed into the shop. I was surprised to find my brother knew the owner, Terry, who asked why he was bringing in the golf clubs again.
“I’m selling them to you if your price is right.” Frankie cut in. “If it’s not I’ll take them someplace else.”
“I wanted them last time. I told him 17 grand.” Terry said, taking the clubs from Frankie.
I scowled at my brother, who looked down at the ground then admitted to me he’d brought the clubs in two years ago, while Dad was on a business trip. He was curious what they were worth. I pointed out Dad had only been diagnosed with cancer one year ago, not two.
“Let’s focus on what’s important.” He said, like he was suddenly a Buddhist. “Anyway this should solve our mutual problem.” My brother continued, nodding towards Frankie who was eyeing a Grandfather clock in the corner.
Our mutual problem. A part of me wished I’d let my brother hang out to dry and clean up his own mess. I hadn’t had to help him get this psycho 12 grand. Frankie was a beast of my brother’s making. But then again my brother’s extortion and Frankie were also a beast of my making, my prank, when I really thought about it. Then my train of thought was interrupted:
“These aren’t the same clubs.” Terry said.
My brother and I both turned on him in horror.
“Those are them.” I said, firmly. “I just picked them up from his estate lawyer myself.”
Terry shook his head. “These are a replica. They didn’t use this metal then. Someone made a fake set.”
Frankie approached me threateningly but I was too busy focusing on my brother to notice. I asked my brother what the fuck he’d done. He’d better come out with it. But my heart sank as I saw the look on his face: He truly was as baffled as I did. Frankie didn’t fool around, he pulled out his gun and pointed it right at my brother’s head.
We were at 26 hours now and he wanted his money.
Terry excused himself and shuffled to the back room and locked the door.
My brother insisted we go see Steve Benedict. He knew for a fact the guy was a slimeball who’d steal here and there from his clients. My dad never minded because Steve was a real whiz when it came to tax evasion. What he stole, he made up for.
By the time we got to Steve’s office, Donnie had turned a kind of greenish color. He didn’t want to be left alone again, and insisted on limping after us when we went up. He used one of the clubs as a kind of crutch. This was the day I learned that timing is everything: The fact that Steve Benedict was playing with the Ford putter when we burst into his office was the most fortuitous turn of events I could have asked for.
Frankie shooting Steve immediately in the head upon entering, however, was not.
My brother and I gaped down at Steve, who lay on the floor; blood spooling from his head. Frankie approached my brother, cooly, and explained it was time to go back to the antique shop. And in fact his price had just gone up another 10 grand, we’d have another three days to pay the extra. He pointed at Steve:
“Because this was more than I signed up for.” Frankie finished.
I considered mentioning neither my brother nor I had asked Frankie to kill Steve. Sure the guy had made a set of fake golf clubs to scam me out of my inheritance and I was pissed about it, but killing him seemed overboard.
And then I heard the cracking of metal on skull, and Frankie Stowe slowly sank to the ground. It was Donnie who stood behind him, with the shiny Ford driver in his hand. He continued to deliver blow after blow after blow into Frankie’s skull until Frankie didn’t look at all like Frankie anymore. And then Donnie stood over him, breathing hard.
I guess you can only push a working actor so far.
Donnie didn’t waste time. My brother and I watched him speechlessly as he wiped down the gun and put it in Frankie’s cold dead hand. All those hours of watching CSI had paid off. Donnie wiped the blood off the driver, and put it in the real Ford golf bag which he thrusted at me to hold. I swung it over my shoulder.
“We‘ll go back to the shop and split it three ways,” Donnie said, “I’ll be waiting in the car.” He limped out of the room, but not before he’d kicked Frankie one more time with his good leg.
My brother looked like he was about to faint. I was a little unsteady myself, and I noticed we both had speckles of blood all over us. I told my brother we needed to get out of here. What other choice did we have? We had to move forward. Maybe in five years we’d laugh about all this. Or maybe in 20.
As I hoisted the golf bag onto my shoulder, I felt the rustling of paper under my elbow. I unzipped one of the compartments, and discovered an envelope was hidden inside the lining of the pocket. I took it out, and saw my name written on the front in my Dad’s handwriting. I opened the envelope, and discovered a note, and with it was a shiny silver dollar. My brother’s eyes widened and he came over to look over my shoulder. We both read:
“Eve,
I don’t know if you remember, but when you were 8 you and Jake found a silver dollar on the road. You lied to him and said his Cracker Jack prize was worth more. I settled the whole thing with a ten dollar bill; telling you both that’s all it was worth. Really though, I knew the moment I saw it that this is - in fact - a particularly rare silver dollar from 1794, one of the first struck by the US mint. I saved it, knowing that one day when you two were old enough, it would be worth millions. I was right. I’d wager now you could get 10-12 million for it at auction. I hid it when those vultures came and seized everything, and now it’s yours and your brother’s.
Bring it to Terry at the antiquities shop I brought Jake to that time. He will know what to do.
Love, Dad.”
Jake and I looked at one another in disbelief. Slowly, Jake broke into a smile and said, “You’re right. This was a great prank.”
THE END