Down Solo by Earl Javorsky

to nod. His friends are edged up against the racks.
    “Bobby, I am the Invisible Enemy and you’re all out of ships. What do you want to do?”
    “Nothing, man. Let me go.”
    “Bobby, I’ve been resurrected from the dead. What do you think of that?” I ask him.
    “Nothin’. I think you’re a fuckin’ wacko.” He’s struggling now, but I have more to say.
    “Wrong, Bobby. It’s life that’s wacko, son. It’s not me. Chew on that for a while. Here . . .” I straighten him up. I hand him the mop and slap a quarter on the game counter. “Try to get all of the glass.”
    I turn around and walk down the aisle, past the magazines, past paper plates and Lipton tea, past the carousel with the sunglasses, past Mo, who’s punching up fifty dollars worth of Lotto tickets for an old lady—she buys her food here with welfare stamps—and on into the office. I take off my apron. The drawer sticks shut and for a moment I worry that it’s locked, but then it opens.
    I’m in the parking lot now, the gun stuck in my pants. As I start my car I see Mo looking up from the register, a puzzled expression on his face.
    Sorry, Mo.

15
    I put the gun in my glove box. It would be legal in my trunk, but the Z doesn’t have one. My cellphone barks and I snatch at it. Caller ID tells me it’s a private number. I put it on speakerphone and clip it to my visor so I won’t get stopped for using it while driving.
    “Sweatin’ a little?” A high, nasal voice, male. I know the voice, but I can’t place it.
    “Who is this?”
    “This is Jason Hamel. You’ve got something I want, I’ve got something you want, and I’m tired of fuckin’ around.” If this is Jason Hamel, he’s thrown out his scripture-quoting, righteous Christian act like it’s last night’s Halloween costume.
    “Where’s my daughter? Put her on the phone, now.”
    “Listen, you freak, I don’t know how you survived a bullet in your head, but I should have put another one between your eyes.” A whiney snarl in my ear, hard to square with the silver-maned gent on the website.
    Confronted with my killer, I can only blurt, “MINDY . . . NOW,” a spastic shout while I swerve to avoid an SUV full of kids in baseball uniforms trying to make a left turn through the light that I was running. The Z’s on its own now, skidding at an angle until it mashes into a parked pickup truck full of furniture. The guy driving the SUV rolls down a window and yells, “What, are you crazy?” and drives away. I watch as the pickup driver starts to get out of his truck.
    The voice on the phone says, “Stew on it a bit longer, bitch,” and clicks off. I do the prudent thing under the circumstances and peel out, heading toward the coast.

    ¤ ¤ ¤

    It’s a hot and crowded day at the beach. I have to park off Main on Brooks and walk because I don’t have any money for beach-lot parking. I cut through a river of people milling on the boardwalk and past the park where the Rollerbladers skate to music blasting from a portable PA system and skateboarders perform tricks on a wooden ramp.
    At the shoreline, children are wading in the shallow water. A skinny man in oversize flowered trunks stands knee deep in the surf; I watch a wave hit him in the chest and knock him over. I’m wandering now, still without a plan, clutching my cell phone and waiting for Jason Hamel to let me talk to my daughter.
    I head south on the boardwalk, caught in the current of tourists and locals, hustlers and crazies, and other regulars roaming the strip between the shops and the beach. Kids dressed up like hippies from the sixties are hanging out, the girls wearing tie-dyes and granny glasses. Cops follow close on the heels of a group of five black teenagers wearing baggy pants, oversize tee shirts, and identical basketball shoes. A turbaned man playing a guitar glides by on Rollerblades, weaving through the slow-moving crowd.
    To my right, on the perimeter of the sand, are the vendors, their