20k

Sal’s been sitting in his chair since he woke up today. Though there are no less than a dozen things he could be doing, he hasn’t found the motivation for any of it. The apartment has been so quiet, aside from the squeak of his rotating computer chair. Soon, the realization that his roommate also hasn’t made a sound hits Sal.

The apartment never seems bigger than when Sal’s home alone. Aric is a “work-from-home-type,” so he’s usually puttering around the apartment. If not walking through rooms to get a snack or use a bathroom, the sounds of the video games or movies echo through the halls from the bedroom. But Sal hasn’t seen or heard anything.

Sal finally makes a decision. His arms drop as he sinks in the chair, eyes fixing on the ceiling. After a beat, he rises from the chair, releasing a discontented sigh. Sal moves toward the refrigerator in the kitchen just a few steps from his computer desk. The door lazily swings open as he guides it, his eyes scanning the contents inside; Milk, leftover chinese, pizza, butter, wilted parsley. Minutes go by, nothing changes, but still, Sal looks.

Suddenly, Sal hears the familiar, though hurried, sound of footsteps ascending down the hall outside the door of the apartment. Someone is running through the corridor, probably from the elevator four doors down. The steps reach the door and the metal doorknob begins to rattle frantically. Sal watches as the deadbolt turns and the handle finally rotates. Aric rushes in, disheveled and bloodied, his back slamming the door shut as he rests against it. His eyes widen in surprise, his breath swift and heavy.

“Fuck!” yells Sal, startled and confused. “What happened to you?!”

“I thought you were working today, Salvator, what are you doing here?” asks Aric.

“I took a day, what happened?” Sal closes the fridge and moves to retrieve a towel from a drawer.

“I, uh… Fuck, Sal, I’m in a little bit of trouble right now.” Aric staggers through the living room toward an open window. He’s holding a small, black duffle bag and has a gun sticking out of the backside of his waistband. Sal didn’t know he even had a gun.

“Well, what’s going on?” asks Sal. He’s running warm water onto the towel he grabbed. It’s soaked through after a few seconds and Sal wrings it out. Aric looks out the window, looking as though he’s trying to find something or someone. Sal quickly walks to Aric to hand him the towel, but Aric is startled and drops his bag.

“Stay back!” Aric pulls out his gun and points it at Sal, who freezes, his hands going up.

“Whoa,” whispers Sal.

“No,” says Aric. “No, I’m sorry.” He lowers the gun and puts his palms to his head. The distress in his voice is palpable to Sal. He puts his hand out to Aric, offering the towel.

“For the blood,” He tells Aric.

“Thanks.” He begins to pace, thoughts racing through his mind.

“What’s goin on, bud,” asks Sal. Aric freezes, staring off into the distance.

“I killed someone,” sputters Aric. “No, I mean, I was supposed to…” he trails off. Sal’s brows furrow. “I, uh… ran into someone and we started fighting. And I shot him.” Moments of silence pierced his sentences. “It was someone important. So I gotta get outta here.” Aric starts heading toward the door.

“What? Wait, no,” says Sal, reaching to stop Aric from walking out. “Look, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t care. You can’t run from something like this, Ar. We have to go to the police, it was fucking self defense!” Aric looks into Sal’s eyes, scanning for ideas.

“Listen…” Aric puts his hand on Sal’s shoulder. “You have to pack my shit for me.” Sal looks back at Aric in confusion. Tears form in Aric’s eyes. “I need you to get everything that can be traced back to me... and burn it.” Sal begins to protest. “Salvator, you HAVE to do this for me,” Aric shouts.

“Ar, what’s going on…” Sal’s voice quivers in fear and concern. Aric turns his head to the window.

“You were the best friend I ever had. Burn my shit, and if anyone asks you… You don’t know what happened to me. You haven’t seen me in days.” Aric then pushes Sal back and runs to the window. He opens it before Sal can say anything or get back his bearings from the push. In a second, he crawls out the window and the metal fire escape clangs loudly as Aric soars down it.

It’s been three days since Aric left. Sal has been fielding phone calls from people looking for his roommate. Strangers, detectives, even Aric’s own family constantly call, leaving message after message. People have been to the apartment. Sal hasn’t even had a chance to process it all. But here he stands, in the doorway of Aric’s room, ready to gather his things. He sets down a few of Aric’s things on a desk by the door that he’s collected from throughout the apartment.

After a few hours, packing clothes, collectibles, and books, Sal reaches a box under the bed. He removes the lid and sees clippings from newspapers. Most of them are stories about missing people and corpses discovered in various spots around town, neighboring towns, and even in towns in neighboring states. Sal sits between the bed and the wall as he skims through the pages, noticing that, despite different names and places, most reports are similar: seemingly gang related killings, all men, all with single gunshots.

Trying to make sense of it, Sal uses his phone, ignoring calls and texts, to search the victims’ names on the internet. His curiosity is overwhelming. He wonders why Aric would have saved these newspaper articles. But there are no answers to be found online. He drops his head against the wall, eyes focusing on the ceiling fan above. The soft rhythmic spinning is all Sal can hear. He looks around the room until his phone rings yet again in his hands. Ready to toss it away, he notices the caller’s name: Aric. He answers the call quickly. But it’s not Aric on the other end.

“Salvator?” speaks an unknown voice.

“Yeah?” he responds

“Sir, this is Detective Milburn from the NYPD.” Sal freezes, knowing full well what’s happened. “We found Aric this morning. I’ve been able to make a few calls to his contacts, but you’re the first to answer.” Sal breathes softly deliberately, trying to be silent for no reason. “Can you come into the station sometime this week?”

Sal hesitates but then agrees. The detective explains that Aric appears to have killed himself. Sal needs to come in to identify the body and collect his Aric’s things. While listening, Sal doesn’t really hear. His mind is racing. Suddenly, though, his eyes catch a glimpse of something peeking out from under Aric’s mattress.

“I’ll be in,” Sal whispers.

“Excellent. Listen, someone who saw Aric running into your building said he was carrying a black bag. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

“No,” replied Sal. “No, but like I said before, he took all his stuff out of here days before he left.”

“Ok,” said the detective. “Well, have a look around, maybe he left something behind that could give us some insight. Just bring in with you anything you think might be helpful, all right?” Sal nods, eyes fixed on the mattress. “Mr. Beratta?”

“Yes,” Sal sputters, glancing at the bag he set on Aric’s desk, “Of course. I’ll let you know when I can make it in. Thank you.” Sal ends the call and reaches for the object he’s been staring at. It’s a book. A small notebook. It’s black and soft, with a thin black ribbon holding a place inside hanging from the bottom. Sal pushes away the elastic band holding the book closed and lets it fall open. The page being saved is mostly blank except for a name printed in the center. Just below is an address and a date. In the top left corner, circled in red ink, “14k.”

Sal turns a few pages. There’s another name, another address, another date, and in the corner of that page, circled in red, “9k.” Another page, more information, 11k. 13k. 5k. Sal stops. He reaches over to the stack of newspaper clippings in a pile on the floor and collects as many as he can. Hurriedly, he rifles through the articles glancing quickly at the names printed throughout them until, finally, he freezes. This article has a picture of a young man, Harrold Grady from Bellerose, 25, pictured with family. Sal turns to the little black notebook and reads the page: H. Grady, 1145 West Street, Bellerose, NY, 01/30, and in the top left corner, “14k.”

Sal picks up another clipping. Travis Wilson, 22, of Queens, NY, dead from a gang related shooting. He flips through the pages in the black book until he sees Travis’ name. Some of the names in the clippings take time to find, but they all have a page. Sal tosses the newspaper articles back onto the pile and turns to the last page in the black book. Deondre Hatcher, Beverly, NJ. The date is the day Aric disappeared. In the corner of this page, a number with no red circle. Sal looks over at the black bag Aric had when he came home. It’s only opened a little, but he can see money inside. “20k.”