Earth Improvement Day

Chapter 1

Shine a Hard Light

Billy had his mother’s eyes, intelligent eyes, expressing love and joy; eyes alive with wonder at almost everything his limited world had to offer; eyes filled to overflowing in their final moments with an unfathomable fear.

He pushed his fluffy, strawberry colored teddy bear, Carter, off the backseat of the car and onto the floorboard so Carter wouldn’t get hurt. Such a considerate boy.

Billy pinched shut those beautiful green eyes, and hunched his narrow shoulders, pulling a thin arm up to cover his handsome little-boy face. A useless gesture, like all useless gestures, conceived in a moment of desperation.

It was the best he could do, the only thing he could think of at the time, and nobody could fault him for it. He was only five fucking years old.

The sawed-off scattershot blew Billy’s little arm and hand apart, his head splooshed into a cloud of red foam and gray smoke, as yellow strands of hair and pinkish brain tissue coated the automobile’s plush rear interior.

Everything he was, the questioning crooked smile, bundle of feet running through the house when he was told repeatedly not to, stubborn foot-stomping I don’t wanna go to bed yet! bouncing baby boy, was gone.

Just . . . gone.

Chapter 2

Billy!

Jacob Hard woke with a start. In-between each gasp his heart thundered. Cold clammy sweat poured off him to dry in the chill night air.

Did the neighbors hear him scream?

If the thin walls carried the sound, it wouldn’t have been the first time. Maybe, just maybe, the scream was all in his head. Something he imagined. One thing for sure, if he did scream, the nosy neighbors could give his farthest hole a good Frenching. Like they didn’t have their faults?

Old man Carruthers on the right, across the hall, was a heart attack on the verge of happening. All gut and no ass, Carruthers paced the narrow hallway at night in his worn socks, tattered boxers, and dirty tee.

The old fart seemed lucid enough, from what Jake knew of him. The man could hold an interesting conversation about the state of the building or the weather. Perhaps his nightly jaunts were an attempt at an overall exercise program?

Walking, good for the soul.

Then Desperate Deena next door. Forty-five years desperate, fat and ugly ta-boot. Nightly ordering takeout, hoping to get lucky, hoping the delivery driver was more desperate than she was.

Most drivers would waive the tip and run like hell. Though once in a great while she’d get lucky. She had to have a hell of a job to pay for what little comfort she got. The warmth of another soul, pushing the bush.

That left Mrs. Boswellia across the hall, as she hovered day and night by her peephole or windows. The only thing more exciting than Jerry Springer or NYPD Blue reruns seemed to be the soap opera that played out beyond her dirty panes or peep hole.

Maybe Mrs. Boswellia had a thing for old fart Carruthers in his boxers, fat gut and flat assed as he was. Each door that opened could be her secret squeeze, parading back and forth for her viewing pleasure.

Maybe Carruthers was hoping Desperate Deena would take notice of him, and give him a nut-draining knob job, or a naughty roll on the carpet. Fat people sex.

Jake never had much to say to Carruthers, had never made the acquaintance of Mrs. Boswellia across the corridor, and avoided Desperate Deena like a curse. A prophylactic stance, to be sure.

A nightmare woke him. The faces of his family’s murderers once again paraded past his inner eye, one after the other. The same horror night after night, year after year, forever repeating their dastardly deeds.

Jake caught his breath, held it for almost two minutes, forcibly calming himself, and checked the digital display next to his bed. Much too early.

He knew he would never get back to sleep, so why bother trying. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over three years. Five hours most nights, four this night.

The pain Jake felt as he oh-so-slowly rolled out of bed and stood, gripped him by his balls. He arched his sore back, throwing his chest out, listening to the top half his vertebrae snap into place.

He bent over, twisting a little from side to side, listening to the bottom half of his spine do the same. He then popped his neck, and gingerly took his first step. His knee voiced a hefty snap when it straightened.

If he had a friend to call his own, one that faithfully stayed by his side all these years, holding his hand day after day, it was his pain.

The physical pain that wracked his torso and limbs, he could deal with that pain. He would choke down aspirin after aspirin, and pretend the rest away. The emotional pain . . . was considerable.

He had lived.

They had died.

Jake gingerly walked into the bathroom for his mandatory grunt and flush, and afterwards . . .

His shower was a womb of sorts. Warm, wet, comfortable. But like all good things there had to be an end. The water all-too-quickly cooled. He stopped the wondrous cascade and exited, sorry it couldn’t have lasted forever.

He wrung out his long thick hair, and squeezed the excess moisture out of his lengthy beard. The towel was rough on his skin.

Jake dressed: Blue jeans, a gray tee with pocket, gray socks, and black leather biker boots. If he was anything, he was comfortable.

The sun-bleached blond hair on his head got tied back into a pony tail, using a thick tan rubber band. The darker brownish beard he braided. One long braid, hanging straight down from his chin. A small black rubber band held those strands together.

He unintentionally scowled at his image in the mirror, and then scraped his tongue and brushed his teeth.

Coffee had automatically perked while he had been in the shower, and the smell was pure heaven. A big cup poured was first and foremost. Black.

The flavor pulled him together, and the caffeine jump-started his reasoning. There was still the tank to fill, but not yet. The morning had to be properly greeted.

Chapter 3

Jake opened the living room curtains and scanned the immediate area. Side to side, top to bottom. Occasionally a light would come on in another window, down below and across the way, signaling the start of someone else’s day.

He sipped from his cup, thinking nothing but good thoughts for these invisible masses, all snug and warm in their beds. In two days their ordinary lives would be a little safer, and they would never know. They would never know the sacrifices he had made, and would soon make on their behalf.

His stomach growled its annoyance. Time to feed the beast.

In the kitchen Jake poured another cup of coffee. He pulled a pound of bacon out of the refrigerator, and fried it all in a large cast-iron skillet. Nice and crisp.

Only in a cast-iron skillet could he get his bacon just-right crisp, the way he liked it, without burning even one strip.

A trial and error thing, the skillet. A dab of grease launched itself out of the pan and splattered on his arm.

He over-easied eight eggs, using the bacon grease. Almost at the same time he toasted eight slices of whole wheat, slathering each slice with real cream butter, not flavored vegetable ooze, and his cholesterol level be damned.

Screw the overall carbs, and fuck the calories. He would feast like a monarch in the morning, grabbing what he could the rest of the day. A third cup was poured before he sat down to eat.

Not bad, Jake thought, sprinkling more pepper over his plate, forking in bite after bite, sipping his coffee. Not bad at all.

Those first few months on his own, Jake tried the restaurant thing, but had gained weight in all the wrong places. Weight that didn’t fit in with his then plans, such as they were. He didn’t need to diet, but when he looked down he wanted to know his dick was still there.

Books, most of them, told him how he could lose weight, change his eating lifestyle, live for the joy of food, but it was a magazine that finally caught his eye. A magazine that answered all his unasked questions. The latest Mr. Universe was on the cover.

Jake learned how to cook good food that was good for him, and he learned to enjoy what eating really meant. He learned what it took to pack on quality muscle. He also learned how to live alone, how to do his own laundry, and how to clean up after himself.

Jake learned to hate, too.

Hate was as simple as letting his mind dwell on what had been done to him, and what had been taken from him. Hate that bloomed like an endless spring meadow in his soul, fed by needs he’d never understood before, but now had an intimate relationship with.

Food gone, memories hastily raked over, dishes done, Jake pulled a fourth cup of coffee, and watched the sun rise over the nasty trash heap others called a city.

It was like the bright yellow globe was there for him alone, bathing him in life’s affirmations. A smile from the living universe itself, there to brighten his day.

Maybe there was a God out there . . . somewhere.

Maybe not.

He knew in his heart that if there was a God, justice would be served from his hand, and his hand alone. He would be an avenging angel of the most savage kind.

Jake wanted to stand there with a fifth cup of coffee, watching the sun as it stretched higher into the sky. Or a sixth cup as the soothing rays melted the ice from around his wounded soul. But, that was the one thing he couldn’t allow. The ice encasing his soul had to remain.

Soon, he reassured himself. Soon the pain would be gone.

He sat the cup down, knowing his coffee would be cold when he returned.

Jake had to play his games of pretend. Pretend he was fighting ten men at once. Slow, deliberate moves.

Punch, kick; hands, feet, elbows and knees, turning small circles within the confines of his living room. Couch to one side, two chairs and an end table to the other side.

Move a little faster.

Joints screamed, lacking proper lubrication. He ignored them and pushed through the pain. More imaginary opponents arrived to get in his face.

It was nothing for Jake to visualize an endless supply of first-class fighters at his disposal, thanks in-part to his son’s unlimited imagination. Billy’s Batman to his Robin. The numerous games of trucks and cars in the dirt, Saturday morning cartoons, and Billy’s toy box being more important than his laptop.

One of the many benefits of fatherhood. He had been a good dad.

Story time had been heaven. The best told tales were the ones he made up on the spot, leaving the store-bought books on the shelves for Donna, his wife, to read.

Donna loved the store-bought books. Billy didn’t care if the story came out of a book, or his head. Bedtime was a magic castle built with words, inhabited by creatures of the odd but fun persuasion.

Silently Jake thanked his dead son Billy.

Every single day of the week Jake had to work his body and mind to exhaustion. Each day the situation changed, and every possibility had to be thought out, explored to its fullest, options devised.

Push hard; then push harder. He knew his plans could go wrong at the very least, with Murphy’s Law detonating in his face at its worst.

Faster. Feel the burn. Jake could feel his once-damaged heart beat proud and true.

Suck more air.

It wasn’t over yet. There were still two days left out of three very long years of intense preparation. Two glorious days, with one endless night between.

The area he would have used for a dining table, instead contained a large weight bench with four sets of weights spread about on thick steel bars of various lengths. Well over eight hundred pounds of muscle-building metal, ready for pumping.

Legs first. Thighs. Two hundred pound squats with the bar squarely over his shoulders. Dip low, push up hard. Five sets of ten.

Calves second. Then five hundred gut-busting crunches, twisting at the top for maximum gain.

Three hundred each: Weighted dips, wide grip angled bench presses, close-grip pushups, wide-grip overhand chins. Afterwards he did preacher curls until his biceps threatened to burst.

The harder he pushed himself, the less likely he would explode before he was ready, and he was almost ready.

Never, not even in prison, have I ever witnessed one man work with the single-minded intensity you gave those weights. Absolutely possessed.

Chapter 4

Monk, Jake said in-between breaths. I’ve changed . . . that lock . . . three times . . . because of you . . . I’m going to start charging . . . for the repairs.

Monk was a tall thin man, naturally muscular up to a point, with a kinky mane of brown shoulder-length hair, receding at the temples.

He wore his beard short and bushy, but Jake often wondered what lived within those nappy strands. Fleas, lice, pubic crabs? Probably all three, warring for superiority. Survival of the fittest.

Monk was also crazier than an alcoholic clown on payday. Jake’s thought was to use the tags psychopath and sociopath as bookends, and put everything Monk did and said between them.

Monk jimmied the lock for a reason, and Jake had a pretty good idea what that reason was, but didn’t care. He also knew that to show Monk fear or guilt, anything other than I’ll kill you if I have to expression, was a bad idea.

Jake put the weights away and held himself loose but ready, letting a friendly practiced smile spread across his easy morning face.

Monk laughed a dry laugh, and said, I do that to keep in practice, bro. You’re not the only one. The occasional surprise can yield stupidity or graft. I don’t tolerate stupidity, certainly a personal glitch, and I’ll kill you or anyone else in my way when it comes to theft. I’m greedy that way.

What’s a little larceny between friends? Jake asked. I know you can afford it. And just between you and me, Monk, if I had been asleep, in my warm comfortable bed asleep, I’d have probably shot a hole in that fuzzy melon you call a head. That or snapped your neck.

Monk’s eyes narrowed, just a bit. He said, You think I’d let the likes of you get to me? The only reason I’m not kicking the shit out of you right now is, I like you.

Jake’s smile widened, just a little, just enough to shorten Monk’s distrusting smirk.

The only reason you’re not kicking the shit out of me, Jake replied in a light easy tone, is you know I’ll kick your shit back.

Think so?

Jake leaned forward a hair and a half and said, Between you and me, Monk, I don’t like to lose. Did it once, only once, and won’t ever do it again.

Monk straightened his back and let his smile fade. He said, Smell the testosterone.

Smell whatever you want, asshole. But what Jake said to break the tension was, Why are you here, Monk? I didn’t think this early in the morning was your style, addicted to the nightlife and such.

Monk stiffly replied with, Shove enough crank up your nose, and sleep becomes a moot point.

Monk then turned his back on Jake, and went about sticking his nose into places he didn’t belong. Jake let him, trying hard not to laugh.

Let me get that pesky closet door, Monk. Feel free to look under the bed. Need a flashlight? I have a flashlight. Fresh batteries.

Fuck you.

I had a neighbor dig through my medicine cabinet once, looking for prescription drugs. The bathroom is through there. I have tons of aspirin.

Don’t piss me off. I’ll stomp your sorry ass into the carpet, and tear this place apart.

Give it your best shot, Monk. I mean that, too. You give it all you got, because you ain’t big enough, or bad enough, to stomp my ass anywhere.

Monk’s face reddened. He said, Someday we’ll see who crows at the top of the hen house.

Jake kept his easy smile. You ready for that flashlight? I’ll hold it for you.

Monk stopped and stared that mean hard stare of his. He then smiled an uneasy smile and said, I want you to tell me about the other night. That’s why I’m here. The niggers say they were shorted ten pounds of C-4.

That’s not right.

I don’t like it when a deal I set up turns around and bites me on my ass. I may not like niggers, but I’ll take their money. Green is a good color.

Jake took it, all ten pounds of it, but wasn’t about to say so. It wasn’t in the apartment, either.

Eight of those ten pounds were already in place, and the other two were in a safe place, waiting for the wedding. A wedding where the guests boozed themselves up to their eyeballs, ate all they could eat and then some, and got their various vehicles gassed up the next day—courtesy of the club—for the trip home.

Tell me about the shipment, Monk said. And don’t lie to me. I’ll slice your throat if you do.

Chapter 5

Poker: A game where the last two players butt heads, with a little luck thrown in to ramp up the excitement. What nervous habit will pop up in the heat of the game to tell the other player to either up his bet, or fold and take the loss.

Jake could keep the flop sweat off his brow with no tells. Not one thing for the other player to use against him. He loitered there, at that point, waiting for Monk to play the hand he was dealt.

Monk looked like he was about to explode, but only said, What happened the other night?

Tommy-boy was in charge, Jake answered, mentally scraping the pot to his side of the table, which he made very clear to me at the start. He pulled the bricks out of the warehouse locker. He packed each and every brick into two boxes, covered them with packing peanuts, sealing those with packing tape. That’s the way he wanted it. ‘Your orders.’ He even put the boxes into my trunk all by himself, and we delivered the shipment with me at the wheel. Tommy-boy never let the shipment out of his sight, and I never touched a single brick. He collected the money, and I took him home.

Monk nodded. That’s what he said.

Jake was counting on it. He said, Sounds like them bangers are greasing our dicks.

Not the first time, Monk said.

Masturbation isn’t my style, though, one more thing comes to mind.

I thought of that. The only problem I see is that, well, I’ve known Tommy-boy for a long time. Most of his sorry life. He’s greedy, no doubt about it, but aren’t we all?

Then the bangers are lying.

One of them black bastards stuck his nickel-plated cannon in my face, and demanded to know where the other ten pounds went. I don’t think he was lying, do you? Lying niggers, when they think they’re playing the game, the white boy on the shitty end of the stick is supposed to be stupid enough to fall for their line of lame-ass bullshit. Be scared of the black man. Boo! Jigaboo!

Monk thought in racist terms, but Jake knew the truth. Black or white didn’t matter, because people were all the same. There were more good people than bad people, and the good just wanted to live their lives with a little respect and decency.

Then Tommy-boy is lying, Jake insisted. It’s that simple.

Monk was also one of those people who were too damned smart for their own good. The man thought he had a good bead on his piece of the world, and on the people who inhabited it. One of those people who thought he couldn’t be lied to, being a consummate liar himself.

Tommy-boy isn’t what I’d call smart, Monk declared. If he thought he could get away with ripping me off, he probably would. Self-preservation was never his strongest suit.

You’ll know the minute he tries to use or move the stuff. Though I don’t see him using it, as moving it.

The stupid fuck doesn’t realize I have him by the balls?

Jake said nothing, sure his answer was in the silence.

I gave the nigger his missing ten pounds, Monk declared, and then I stuck my big gun in that stupid spook’s face, and told him that if he ever tried that shit with me again, I’d blow his dumb nigger ass away. I shot the earring off his left earlobe. ‘Can you hear me now?!’ Monk laughed and actually slapped his knee. We almost had us a war.

What stopped it? Jake asked.

Ten of us against four of them. Plus, I have the niftiest toys for sale. I reminded them boys they can’t play their games without my toys.

Monk held up a long dirty index finger as the universal signal to wait a minute. He turned and slipped over to the front door, opened it, reached around the sill, and retrieved a small black gym bag he had left in the hallway.

You’re a trusting soul, Jake said.

It’s too early in the morning for normal people, Monk countered with a self-righteous boast. You’re not normal. I don’t think your neighbors would want to jack with you. Am I right?

For the most part.

Then I could have left that bag outside your door all day, did my business, and it still would have been there when I came back.

What’s in the bag?

Money. A wad large enough to choke a Great Dane. Add to that a big gun, and a camcorder. I think Tommy-boy fucked up for the last time. Friend or not, plant him. I want a first-rate epic.

Even though he had anticipated something like this, Jake played it like he hadn’t expected it at all. He took a slow deep breath.

Monk, watching closely, nodded. He said, I want his woman and brat growing maggots, too. You don’t have any problems with that, do you?

Not at all. And, having his reasons for thinking such thoughts, said, I’ll take care of the loose ends.

Is five good enough for you?

Five thousand to wipe three turds off the sole of the city’s shoe? More than enough.