Joe Victim: A Thriller

“It’s my day off tomorrow,” he says. “It’s Sunday.”


“But we need to talk about the trial. It’s our last day,” I say, more desperate now since Melissa hasn’t set me free, so maybe the luck ball isn’t falling that much at all.

“Well, we’ll see what happens. If I can make it I’ll make it.”

“And I need you to spot me two hundred dollars,” I tell him.

“Good night, Joe,” he says, and hangs up.

The prison guard is still leaning against the wall. He’s playing a game on his cell phone. I make the second of my two calls listening to the theme music and then to the explosions coming from the guard’s direction. My mother answers after the first ring, as if she were expecting the call.

“Hello, Mom. It’s me.”

“Joe?” she asks, as if it could have been one of any amount of people ringing and calling her mom.

“It’s me,” I tell her.

“Why are you calling? It’s Saturday night. Date night. We’re about to head out for dinner.”

“I wanted to—”

“You can’t come along, Joe. It’s date night. Why would you try to ruin date night?” she asks, sounding annoyed, and I can picture her on the end of the phone frowning at the wall. “It’s our last one before the wedding.”

“I’m not calling about date night,” I tell her.

“Why? You’re too embarrassed to be seen with your mother on a Saturday night?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” she asks, no doubt the frown now being joined by, rather than replaced by, a look of confusion.

“I’m calling about something else.”

“About the wedding?”

“No. Remember how I called you last night?”

“Yes. Of course. You called about your girlfriend,” she says. “I’m so glad you have a good woman in your life, Joe. Every man deserves a good woman,” she says, sounding happy again. “Do you think you’ll get married? Is that why you’re calling? Oh my, I’m so excited for you! Perhaps we can have weddings on the same day! Just think about it. It’s so fantastic isn’t it? Oh, oh, how about if Walt is your best man? By golly, that’s a great thought!”

“I’m not so sure that’s going to happen, Mom.”

“Because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. You know, Joe, I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

We’re getting off track—but of course my mom has been off track for at least thirty years. “Mom, did you call her?”

“What?”

“Did you call my girlfriend? Did you tell her that I’d gotten the message?”

“What message?”

“Did you call her?”

“Yes, of course I called her. That’s what you asked me to do. She didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“The message,” I tell her, “the message in the books.”

“What books?”

“The books you brought in for me. The books she gave you to give me.”

“Oh, oh those books,” she says, and I hope the force of everything flooding back to her knocks her over. That way she’ll break a hip and the wedding will have to be postponed. “Did you enjoy them?” she asks. “I thought they were okay. Not as good as TV, but nothing ever is. I can’t count how many times I’ve read a book after seeing the movie on telly and been so disappointed. I just wish authors could get it right. Don’t you think so, Joe?”

I don’t answer her. I can’t spare the energy, because I’m using all of my strength to have an out-of-body experience. I’m trying to figure a way to reach my arm down the phone line and put my fingers around her throat.

“Joe? Are you still there?” she asks, and then she taps the phone against her hand—I can hear it banging once and twice, then a third time, and then it’s back and her lips are against it and I’m still trying to reach her with my hand. “Joe?”

“You read them?” I ask.

“Of course I did.”

“But you’re a slow reader.”

“So?”

I face the concrete wall. I wonder how far I could bury my forehead into it. “So when exactly did my girlfriend give them to you to give to me?”

“When?” she asks, then she goes quiet as she’s figuring it out. I can picture my mom standing in the kitchen on the phone, dishes behind her, cold meat loaf on the counter, using her fingers to count off the days. “Well, it wasn’t last month,” she says.

“So it was this month.”

“Oh Lord no. No, it was, now let me see . . . it was before Christmas, no, no, wait—it was after. Yes, I think it was after. Probably around four months ago, I suppose.”

I tighten my grip on the receiver. The other hand curls into a ball. I can’t hear my mom choking. “Four months?”

“Maybe five.”

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wall. It’s painted-over cinder block, so it’s cold and smooth and easy to wipe blood off.

“Five months,” I say, and somehow my voice stays level.

“No more than six,” she says.