Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (10 page)

Bob gave a quick tour of the small house, boasting about the new tile he had recently put in the bathroom. Both Amy and Patrick feigned interest (Patrick touching and gliding his fingertips over the tile with an admiring, approving nod, as if he knew what the hell he was talking about), and when all the formalities were done, the three of them gathered in the den with Audrey still entertaining the kids in the kitchen.

Bob poured Amy a glass of cabernet, then he and Patrick a healthy glass of bourbon, no ice, before sinking into his recliner with a groan and a sigh. Amy and Patrick took the sofa to the right of the recliner. Bob sipped his bourbon, wiped his beard and said to Patrick: “Bears game on tonight.”

Patrick threw Amy a sideways glance, and she burst out laughing.

Chapter 17

Patrick had graduated from Penn State. He was used to crazed fans. But here now, in this neighborhood bar (which was a neighborhood bar in the truest sense of the word, right down to the aging but cheerful staff who appeared happily confined to an eternal stay in their sheltered box, to fifty years of memorabilia smothering all four walls that would mean jack shit to anyone outside a twenty-mile radius of the place), Patrick was almost convinced that these local residents and their devotion to their Hershey Bears may actually
trump
the phenomena that was Penn State football.

Finding a spot at the bar, or more importantly, in plain view of a television, was no easy task, but Bob Corcoran was as close to a celebrity as one could get at Gilley’s Tavern. He was showered with handshakes, smiles, and pats on his thick back as the sea of admirers stepped aside after their greeting in order to clear a path towards two stools at the bar, curiously unoccupied considering how packed the place was.

Christ, I’m hanging out with Norm from Cheers,
Patrick thought.

As father and son-in-law settled into their stools, Patrick’s attention was anywhere but the television, or what he might want to drink; it was on the eclectic abundance of patrons crammed into the humble bar—kids, the elderly, drunks, business men, manual laborers. People who at any other time in their lives might not even share a friendly glance on the street tonight shared one common bond: their local hockey team. The feeling was instantly contagious. Patrick, who had seen maybe one or two Bears games in the past with an indifferent eye—Bob drunk and screaming at the television back in the Corcoran’s home—was now an instant fan. He wanted nothing more than for the Bears to win, to celebrate with these mass of strangers he now felt a connection with. It was a bizarre yet exhilarating feeling that had him wishing Philadelphia fans were not the fickle frontrunners they were so that he might experience this same camaraderie with strangers back home.

“You awake, partner?” Bob asked Patrick with a nudge.

Patrick’s daze broke. “Huh?”

The bartender, a balding, heavy-set man with hairy forearms below the curled sleeves of a stained white button-down (complete with damp moons under both pits, rag over the shoulder, and if smoking had not been banned in Pennsylvania bars, Patrick would have bet his life a chewed cigar would have been jammed into one corner of the guy’s mouth) was leaning forward on the bar, staring at Patrick.

Bob laughed. “What do you want to drink, space cadet?”

Patrick smiled at the bartender. “Sorry.” The bartender nodded back, neither annoyed nor pleasant, just busy. Patrick quickly turned to Bob. “I don’t—what are you having, Bob?”

“Whiskey and beer.” His curt reply held a self-evidence that was akin to asking Cookie Monster what he wanted to eat.

“That’s fine, I’m good with that,” Patrick said.

The bartender went to work on their drinks.

“You alright?” Bob asked.

“I can’t get over this.”

“What?”

Patrick waved a hand around the packed bar. “This. You can literally
feel
the energy in this place.”

Bob smiled proudly as though his own child had been praised. The bartender reappeared and placed two neat bourbons and two bottles of beer in front of them. Both men took sips of their bourbon and chased it with a swig from their beers.

“People ever get rowdy?” Patrick asked.

“Oh hell yeah. But no fights. Never any fights.”

“Never?”

“No way. You don’t disrespect Gilley’s, and
especially
the Bears by fighting on a game night. That’d get you black-balled. People would sooner have their legs cut off than be black-balled from Gilley’s on game night.”

Patrick smiled and took another sip of his beer. “I wish Philly fans could take a cue from this place.”

“What you got in Philly aren’t fans …” And then, as though he had somehow timed his statement to coincide exactly with the start of the game, the bar erupted as the Hershey Bears skated onto the ice. Bob grinned and shouted: “
These
are fans!”

Patrick smiled wide. He then followed his father-in-law’s lead and drained his whiskey (the grimace that instantly began the moment the abundance of warm whiskey hit his throat had
no
chance of reaching his face in a place like this, at a time like this—sorry, face), clinked bottles necks with him, then happily doused the fire in his throat and belly with a deep swig of his icy beer.

Bob let out a satisfied gasp, wiped his beard, and immediately signaled the bartender for an encore.

*

The Hershey Bears defeated the Norfolk Admirals 4-1 in an experience Patrick wouldn’t soon forget. He screamed and cheered until his voice was raw, drank a heck of a lot (although he did have the presence of mind to ask the bartender to find a subtle way to stop sending him whiskey with his beer the moment Bob finally left for the toilet), and seemed to befriend every resident of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in the span of three hours.

With the game now an hour gone, the patrons at Gilley’s were filtering out. Some stayed behind, recapping the highlights of the game with mimic vigor, and some stayed to chase the liquid buzz they had so delightfully acquired during all three periods.

Bob Corcoran was part of the latter. He waved the bartender over and motioned to both he and Patrick. Patrick eyed the bartender, who returned a faint nod before returning moments later with two beers and only one whiskey. Bob instantly leaned into the bar to object, but Patrick put a hand on his shoulder, patted it, and pulled him back.

“It’s alright, Bob, I’m fine with just beer.”

“That’s about the fifth time he dicked you on whiskey.” His voice was slurred, his eyes rimmed red and droopy.

“It’s fine, Bob, really. Besides, someone’s gotta drive us home.”

“Call Amy, she’ll pick us up.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Just how well do you know your daughter?”

Bob burst out laughing. “She’s got you by the short and curlies, doesn’t she?”

“If I call her now and ask her to pick our drunken asses up, she will.”

Bob gulped his whiskey like it was iced tea and looked straight ahead. “That’s my little girl …” He took a big pull on his beer, gasped, “… tough as nails.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, my friend.”

Bob went suddenly quiet, his garrulous, drunken manner vanishing in an instant. “I’ve still got her,” he said.

“What?”

Bob turned to Patrick. His eyes, still droopy and red from drink, now shined with a glassy coat of tears. “I’ve still got my daughter. I’ve got her because of you.”

Even if Patrick had the words—and he didn’t—he knew they’d never find a way out of his mouth. At least not at this precise moment. The incident at Crescent Lake had already been discussed. Some details withheld, some not. Hugs and more hugs had been given. Audrey Corcoran had cried. Amy’s older brother Eric had cried. But a man’s man like Bob Corcoran? Crying? Patrick wasn’t sure a man like Bob even knew how. Yet here he was, on the verge of real tears. Sure, the excessive booze was the likely catalyst, but since the day he met the man, Patrick imagined it would take a freaking crack pipe to burst his father-in-law’s dam.

“Bob, I…”

Bob put his thick hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezed hard. The dam cracked, and tears rolled down his cheeks, catching on his beard. “I’ve still got her because of you.”

The words came to Patrick now. “You’ve got her because of me
and
her. She saved my ass just as much as I saved hers.”

Bob took his hand off Patrick’s shoulder and wiped his eyes. “Yeah?”

The Lamberts had told the Corcorans about Amy holding a kitchen knife to Maria Fannelli’s throat, threatening her life in front of Arty Fannelli in exchange for the freedom of her family. Unfortunately, the threat had backfired and resulted in gunfire—Arty shooting both Amy
and
his adopted mother. Amy had survived the wound thanks to Patrick’s appearance moments later, where he dispatched both Arty
and
Jim Fannelli in such brutal fashion that he often shuddered at the memory, sometimes genuinely questioning whether or not he had truly done such things to another man.

But he was getting side-tracked now, letting his mind slip into that dark place he was constantly trying to avoid. He was here, at Gilley’s, about to divulge something to his father-in-law that he had never told anyone before. Amy would be pissed, but so be it. It was necessary. Yes he was buzzed, but he was not drunk like Bob. And Patrick felt—or at least his buzz felt—that Bob needed to know what his daughter had done. How if it had not been for Amy, his entire family would likely be dead. Patrick may have done the grisly work at the end, but Amy sure as
hell
did some grisly work of her own. Work that many would think even grislier—at least most men would.

“If it wasn’t for Amy, I would have never been able to take those two guys out,” Patrick said.

Bob gave a final wipe of his eyes and gulped his beer. He burped under his breath and said, “You mean when she pulled the knife on the mother? Made that threat?”

“No—before that.”

Bob frowned.

Patrick swigged hard on his beer, second-guessing his decision to divulge.

Fuck it.

“She stuck a big metal nail file into one of the brother’s balls. That’s how she was able to get free.”

Bob’s face dropped.

Patrick leaned back on his stool, steeling himself for whatever may come … and it sure as hell seemed to take its time.

And then finally, thankfully, an incredulous smile. “She did
what
?!”

Patrick, relieved Bob’s reaction was seemingly one of delight, still found himself leaning forward quickly for a respectful shushing. Bob Corcoran was the antithesis of subtlety, and this was
not
a conversation that needed broadcasting. Patrick put a subtle finger to his lips then patted the air. “Keep it down, Bob. This is stuff even the media doesn’t know about.”

“Why didn’t she tell me any of this?”

“I imagine it’s not the kind of thing you voluntarily tell your father.”

“Tell me everything.” Bob was beaming, and Patrick felt some discomfort from his father-in-law’s sudden zeal for the grisly report. Still, the man wanted to know, and his response to the previous information could have been a hell of a lot worse.

So Patrick told as much as he could, with as little detail as he could. After all, despite Bob’s insistence on hearing “everything,” and despite Bob’s apparent show of pride for his daughter’s ass-kicking abilities, Patrick was sure Bob would
not
want to hear the intricate details of how Amy was forced to give Jim Fannelli a blowjob. Her secret intention of biting his dick off. The plan backfiring horribly. Amy then finding herself being forcefully stripped and bent over a dresser where the savior nail file clattered free, magically presenting itself for insertion into said nut sack. Patrick did, however, happily tell Bob that after Jim doubled over, gripping his wounded balls in agony, Amy hoisted a heavy lamp over her head and brought it crashing down onto Jim’s skull, knocking him “the fuck out.”

Bob threw his head back and barked a laugh that made the remaining patrons jump. He slapped Patrick’s shoulder. “Then what?”

Patrick shrugged. “You
know
the rest. She went downstairs, held the knife to the mother’s throat …”

“And then got shot,” Bob said flatly, his smile gone.

Patrick nodded slowly, confused. He couldn’t read his father-in-law’s sudden shift in demeanor.
Surely it’s not accusatory?
he thought.
Not after the emotional thanks earlier?

“That’s right,” Patrick said.

“And then you showed up.”

Patrick sipped his beer and nodded.

“You were upstairs?”

“That’s right. I was bound to a chair. Carrie cut me loose. We were
all
heroes that night, Bob. Me, Amy,
and
the kids.”

“So you were cut free, came downstairs and … ?”

Bob already knew this part, knew practically all of it, but much like an unforgettable night on the town, the desire for a second telling—and likely a third, and a fourth, and so on—seemed to change the status of events from utterly horrific to a celluloid gallantry. Patrick didn’t like it. It was all starting to play back in his head with a cruel clarity that defied time or alcohol—right down to the last spatter of blood and flesh that flecked his face as he murdered one man, and critically wounded another. His earlier hopes of avoiding the dark place were fading. He needed to end this soon. Amy’s bit had been told. No need to go further.

Bob nudged him. “And … ?”

Patrick took a deep breath, let it out slow, and in what was nearly a whisper said: “And I took care of the guy.”

“
Two
guys,” Bob said. He seemed proud again. Proud of his son-in-law.

“Well not at the same time. It was kind of one after the other.”

“How’d you do it?” Bob asked.

“What?”

“How’d you take ’em out?” He held up a pair of fists and made a playful fighting gesture, nearly toppling off his stool in the process.