Fiction: Waiting Room To Paradise

By Suphi

 

Scurrying through the back alleys of the Grand Bazaar. Chased by gendarmerie. I run.

They chase. I run. They chase. I reach the car. I yank open the door. I look back at them. The blue and red lights of their sirens splash across my face… BAM!!! I’m shot. I fall into the driver’s seat. Still manage to turn on the ignition and screech outta of there. Gotta make it to the docks.

Robbing Mehmed Baba’s gold souk was gonna be the easiest score of my life. No security cameras. No alarms. No nothing. Mehmed Baba was an Assyrian feudal lord from Mardin. His clan sold off all their land in 1977 and relocated to Istanbul. But his sons kept up the family business of smuggling precious metals across the border. Nobody dared mess with them. Hence, no security cameras, no alarms, no nothing. So where did all those gendarmerie come from?

Robbing Mehmed Baba’s gold souk was gonna be the last score of my life. I should be in Bozcaada right now. Tucked away in the Aegean. With the woman I love. Happily ever after and all that. I should not be in the bowels of this getaway boat. Dragged around by the cross-currents of the Marmara. Bleeding out all alone. Clutching her picture as I drift in and out of consciousness.

Memories flicker through my mind. Like the time I used to play frisbee with my dog at the beach when I was a kid. Or the time when my dog ran away. Or when I found my mother’s dead body with a needle stuck in her arm. Or that phone call I received a few months back when I was perched up on some rocks gazing out at the Bosphorus. ‘‘There’s enough gold in that dingy little tourist trap for you to retire,’’ said the caller. ‘‘You still wanna retire don’t you?’’

He was the one who talked me into it. Maybe I wanted to be talked into it. I don’t know. I don’t even remember. The memories all start to fade away. I’m drifting off… BAM!!

The blast of the gunshot rings out in my ears again. I bolt up out of a near coma. Gasping for air. Eyes wide open. Still clinging to Melek’s picture. Why didn’t she show up at the docks?

Gotta stop the bleeding. I stumble over to the first-aid kit. I start stitching myself up.

Thankfully the bullet just grazed my gut instead of piercing right through it. At least I made it out alive. My partner wasn’t so lucky. Don’t even know if he was killed or captured alive?

The latter is often a worse fate than the former. For all I know they could be shoving a nightstick up his butt right now. Making him ‘chirp like a nightingale’ as they like to say. The coast guard could show up any second.

Then I hear it. That cavitation noise created by propellers rotating faster and faster.

And it’s getting closer and closer. I grab my gun and crawl toward it. Nobody’s gonna shove a nightstick up my ass. I squint to see through all the fog and rain. It takes a while for me to make out that it’s just a trawler. Curious fishermen? Mehmed Baba’s boys? I cock my gun and stand up to get a better look. Then I hear him calling out to me.

It was him. That voice on the other end of the line. The fence. The mysterious old maestro. The one who put this and all the other scores together. But he was breaking protocol by showing up in person. He always arranged everything over the phone. Nobody ever got to see him. Actually he couldn’t be seen now either cause he was standing in front of the trawler’s flood lights. Nothing but the silhouette of an oversized rain poncho.

‘‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’’ he said. ‘‘I thought you were dead.’’

‘‘I feel worse than dead,’’ I replied.

‘‘Gut shot?’’

‘‘Just a graze. So what the hell happened?’’

‘‘What do you think happened? You got set up. Your so-called fucking partner.’’

I just stand there for a minute. Then I feel this wet pain spreading around my stomach.

‘‘Did you try to stitch yourself up or something?’’

After an eternity I manage a nod. He tells me I didn’t do a good job. He’s right. I look down. I’m bleeding again. So I grab some bandage and start wrapping it around my lower torso. Looking around I ask, ‘‘Where the hell are we anyway? Which way is back?’’ The old man shakes his head.

‘‘The loot is gone. There’s nothing for you back there.’’

‘‘Everything I got is back there!!!’’

‘‘The cops. The mob. They’re all looking for you.’’

‘‘I’ll take my chances.’’

‘‘For what? What do you think is gonna happen? You’re gonna find and kill that traitor? Take back the loot? Melek is gonna kick and you’ll both live happily ever after on some island somewhere? That boat has sailed. No pun intended. You need to hop on this one so I can get you outta here.’’

He stretches out his hand. I don’t take it. ‘‘Come on!’’ he growls stretching out his hand even farther. I ask again, ‘‘Which way is back?’’ He drops his head. Then his hand. The trawler hits reverse. His silhouette slowly disappears back into the mist. ‘‘Find your own way back,’’ he shouts out from the darkness.

I finally reach shore. The car is still there. Blood stains on the driver’s seat all dried up. Turn on the ignition and screech out of there. Scurrying through the dirt roads outside the city. Gotta make it back to Istanbul. A stray dog jumps in front of the car and freezes in the headlights. I hit the brakes. Barely stop. We stare at each other for a while like two old friends. Then it runs off. And I get back to the city.

Parked in front of Melek’s building for the past two hours. The coast is clear so I go in. I find her strung out on the couch. I sit on the edge by her feet. I want to tell her things.

Things I never told her before. Things I never told anybody before. I try to scream them. But she doesn’t hear me. Do the words not come out of my mouth or is she gone? I turn her over.

Needle still stuck in her arm. Blank eyes. She’s gone. And the words still don’t come out of my mouth.

The front door opens. It’s that rat bastard. He stops dead in his tracks. Then looks at my gun shot wound. I feel a wet pain spreading through my stomach again. I look down. The bandage is being soaked in blood. Why will it not stop? The hell with it. I draw my gun. He darts out of there. I chase after him.

He runs. I chase. He runs. I chase. And after all that running and chasing we somehow end up back in the back alleys of the Grand Bazaar. I corner him. I corner him right in the same spot where all those gendarmerie were lying in wait. Sweet revenge. I aim and shoot. I keep shooting. I keep shooting until I run out of bullets. It’s dark but I think I got him. I think he dropped. I run over to check. He’s not there. He’s not anywhere.

A police car pulls up. And then another one. And another one. They all jump out guns drawn. Shouting at me to put down my weapon and surrender. I wave my gun around at them and dart out of there. I run. They chase. I run. They chase. I reach the car. I yank open the door. I look back at them. The blue and red lights of their sirens splash across my face…

BAM!!! I’m shot.

I bolt up out of a near coma. Gasping for air. Eyes wide open. Still clinging to Melek’s picture. The silhouette of the oversized rain poncho is crouched over me. ‘‘Where the hell are we anyway?’’ I ask again. ‘‘Same place as before,’’ he answers. Then he sees me looking down at the pool of blood I’m lying in. ‘‘And no,’’ he adds, ‘‘it’s not just a graze.’’

I gotta stop the bleeding. I lunge toward the first-aid kit but collapse. He walks over and crouches over me again. I plead with him, ‘‘Which way is back? Which way is back?’’

‘‘I told you. There’s nothing for you back there.’’

‘‘Everything I got is back there!!!’’

‘‘Not anymore.’’

I let out a Primal Scream. It gets cut short cause of the blood I cough up. He reaches out his hand. I don’t take it. ‘‘I’m gonna kill him,’’ I say. ‘‘And I’m gonna.. save her.. Melek.’’

The old man shakes his head. ‘‘That boat has sailed. You need to hop on this one so I can get you outta here.’’ I let out one more scream then break down sobbing. ‘‘Come on!’’ he growls stretching out his hand even farther. This time I take it.

I should not be in the bowels of this getaway boat. Dragged around by the cross-currents of the Marmara. Bleeding out all alone. Clutching her picture as I drift in and out of consciousness. The memories I’ll never get to make start to flicker through my mind. I’m in Bozcaada right now. With the woman I love. On the beach. We’re playing frisbee with my dog. We’re happy. I throw the frisbee one last time. But the wind carries it out into the sea.

The old man squeezes my hand. I close my eyes. The frisbee keeps gliding above the water. It keeps gliding. And gliding. And finally. It lands on a wave. And I smile.