I am not an official entrant because Im 181 words over the limit, but thats fine. I feel like I had a part in the inception of this idea because I waterboarded Malmon in a short story a couple years ago. He got out of that one, but this time..well...#killingmalmon LOVE THAT DIRTY WATER Undercover DEA agent Dan Malmon had been off work for nearly a year since he had been lashed with piano wire to a plank, then waterboarded by Ahmet Egoyan, the Turkish-born leader of a band of drug dealers in Toledo, Ohio. Now though, certified duty-ready by the agency shrinks, he was finally back in the field. Not only was he back undercover, he had drawn the plumb assignment of meeting his contact at Fenway Park. And not just any game at the historical baseball stadium, but during the seventh game of the World Series. He knew the Fenway meet was the brainchild of his supervisor, Jon Jordan. The boss’s idea making his return as easy as possible, but if Jordan had any idea how much anxiety Malmon, a lifelong Sox fan, suffered over a game, let alone one of this much importance, the boss would have chosen something far less stressful like a swimming pool full of sharks with frickin’ laser beams. Malmon’s cover was that he was a money launderer from Minnesota named Scott Smalls. He had already done a little business with the big boss of Boston, and now this contact would take him to his meeting with Mr. Big. He had two seats behind the first base dugout, and had occupied one of them since ninety minutes before the start of the game. Of the 37,400 seats in Fenway, the only vacant one was the aisle seat next to Malmon, the one reserved for his contact. Time was running out, in more ways than one. Not only had there been no sign of the contact, but the Sox were down one going to the bottom of the ninth. A guy named Kimbrel, closer for the Atlanta Braves, was coming on to put the finishing touches on the Braves’ championship run. Like a hitman, he had snuffed out the nine Sox players he had faced in his team’s three victories in the series. He hadn’t even given up so much as a base hit. The coffin lid was in place and most of the nails were pounded in. Just three to go. Sitting there dejectedly, the remnants of a pulled pork sandwich (which he only allowed himself at ball games) roiling in his stomach, Malmon watched the first two hitters go down easily. He had already given up on his contact showing up, thoughts of what could have gone wrong swirling through his brain. If that wasn’t enough, only one more out and the Red Sox dream would be over, too. All that stood between the Braves was Sox second-sacker, Dustin Pedroia, a feisty, tough as nails player who had been thought too small to be able to do his job at the top level of his craft. The same things had been said about the Clark Kent-like Malmon. As Pedroia stepped into the box, Malmon felt someone slide in front of the aisle seat next to him. No one in the packed stadium was sitting and the roar of the crowd was loud enough to make Malmon’s ears ache, and beneath his feet, he could feel the ballpark rocking. He turned to see a leggy brunette in leather pants and a black Concrete Blonde T-shirt. She gave him a smile showing him lots of white teeth between crimson lips. This was his contact? No way. He was meeting a professional killer named Belcamino. He was expecting Luca Brasi and instead he found himself standing in the middle of almost forty thousand screaming fans, all their voices fading away as the woman next to him asked, “Malmon?” He managed to nod, but he was sure the dumbstruck look on his face was probably permanently etched there. “You think they have a chance?” she asked, even amid the roar, her voice sounded like a purr. He shrugged. He wanted to have faith. It was something, in fact, that his partner had talked to him about in the Egoyan case. “Man,” the partner had said, “you gotta have a little faith.” As if on cue, Pedroia singled. There was hope. The new acquaintances traded smiles. David, “Big Papi” Ortiz strode to the plate looking like Paul Bunyan. A huge man, Papi was one of the greatest clutch hitters in history. He lived for moments like this. “So, what’s the plan?” Malmon asked the killer. In this bedlam, he was sure no one else was listening to him. “Papi homers, Sox win,” Belcamino said. She smelled like summer though it was nearly November. He grinned. “Not that plan...” Ortiz took the first pitch, a strike over the outside corner. Everyone pitched Papi away, trying to keep him from pulling the ball. “...our plan,” Malmon said. Belcamino gave him another big smile. The second pitch, Ortiz fouled off, 0-2. “There must be some plan,” Malmon said. Ortiz was obviously looking outside now, so when the third pitch came up and in, “chin music” in the trade, he threw himself to the ground to keep from getting hit. Ortiz scowled, the pitcher grinned. “When do we meet O’Shea?” Malmon asked. Daniel O’Shea, boss of bosses in the Boston drug trade. Somebody said, “Bill Gates gets half.” If that was true, O’Shea got seventy-five cents of every dollar. The next pitch was another fastball away, Ortiz was on it and the sound was like a gunshot as the ball took off toward the opposite field, up toward the famed Green Monster scoreboard. The crowd screamed, then went silent, as they all watched the ball soar. Malmon felt his heart leap into his throat as he stood mesmerized by the arc of the horsehide. In seeming slow motion, the ball sailed over the Monster and into the Boston night. The crowd erupted. Everyone went batshit, screaming, and hugging total strangers. Belcamino through her arms around Malmon. “Wait,” he said. “I don’t hug...” A burning pain erupted on his left side and cut off his words. Almost instantly, the flames of pain turned icy cold, and his legs felt a little weak. The woman put her mouth close to his ear. “Mr. O’Shea said, ‘You’re killin’ me, Smalls.’ He said I should tell you that.” Their eyes locked. Malmon wanted to say something, but words flittered away like butterflies on a windy night. He heard The Standells, a Fenway tradition with every victory. “Yeah, down by the river, down by the banks of the river Charles...” Malmon said, “But we...” Again, he couldn’t find words or breath to say them. The Standells sang, “Aw, thats whats happenin baby,thats where youll find me, along with lovers, buggers and thieves aw, but theyre cool people...” She helped him sit back down in his chair, then she was gone. He saw the wound in his side, the blood, all the blood. He wanted to rise, but felt too tired. After everything, this was it. At least the Sox had won again in his lifetime. Everything grew fuzzy and dark. The last thing Malmon heard before he died was the Standells’ singer, “Well I love that dirty water.”
Posted on: Mon, 07 Jul 2014 22:40:07 +0000