The Black Orchid

There’s this game I used to play when I was a kid. We only played it on the coldest, snowiest, iciest days. I mean, now we hate the snow and ice. We rush out in our cars and skid and bump and crash. But, in those days, it held a sort of adventure, it was a source of fun to us. We would wait for those days when there was a crust of snow topped by a layer of ice, then thinly crusted with more snow. Each of us would take a turn, with as much of a forceful start as the ground would allow, then see who could balance himself the furthest, slipping and sliding away on that patch of snowy ice.

I used to be the champion. That is, before my kid brother, Howie, came into play. At first, he fell flat on his face. But I kept egging him on, strengthening his balance. My kid brother, he listened to me. From then on, he was the champ. It was I who made him so. Howie, Howie, how I learned to hate him. He won all the games, he always got the grades, the girls all adored him. But, looking back, I guess I had to learn to hate him before I could love him.

Unlike the snow and ice, our lives maintained opposing levels of balance.

I was working on my second marriage, and it wasn’t going well. I needed a source of easy money, so I turned to them. They had a plan, and I had a gun. But we needed a driver. Howie’s wife had just given birth to a beautiful baby girl, so I figured he could use some easy dough himself. A teacher’s salary just ain’t that good in these times. So, I cut him in.

Actually, it was Chen Yoo’s idea. Chen always planned the capers, always selected the right men for the job. He remained faceless and unrecognized through all this. Chen Yoo always struck the right balance, on the side of anonymity. His words were simple, matter-of-fact words. His expertise was balancing normality with immorality.

“How about Howie?” were the words, more a statement of fact than a question.

“Leave him out of this,” I responded, “Howie’s clean. He has a family to consider!"

“All the more reason to use him,” said Chen, “He’ll listen to you, he needs the money, and he won’t be so easy to identify”

Once they decide something, there’s no balance between acceptance and refusal. I had to approach Howie.

Of course, Howie refused, he was always on the up and up. He loved his wife, he loved his God, he loved being a family man. But. Being his older brother, I learned ways to convince him I was right. Finally, bowing to my demands, Howie agreed on the condition he would only drive, and this would be his only caper. Howie didn’t know that once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no balance between his world and ours.

The target was the Main Savings and Loan. Studs Urecal was to blast the safe. I was to exercise my trigger finger, just in case. There should be no hangups; We knew the watchman punched in promptly at midnight, it was a sure thing.

But, tonight’s schedule was slightly off-balance. The watchman’s wife put an urgent call to him, disrupting his finely balanced schedule by minutes. We burst in the door, switching off the alarm.  What we didn’t know is that the watchman was rushing to the clock, heard our entrance, and was peeking in from the darkness. He drew his revolver and fired blindly. His bullet missed us; mine hit its mark. Now we had a murder charge over us.

We rushed to the car. Howie had heard the shots. He asked nothing; he knew. Swerving the car down the road, I knew tears were blinding his eyes. “Don’t worry, kid,” I whispered, “it’s okay, no one saw you, no one knows you.’

“A life,” he responded, “A life was taken. I’m partly to blame.” 

“Take the money and run,” I told him, “This part of your life is over.”

But, deep inside, both of us knew it wasn’t over.

I wasn’t there, but Howie’s my kid brother; I knew what he was going through at home. He never held anything back from his wife. She would wonder where that extra wad of cash came from. I could imagine the conversation. Howie would remind her they had a toddler to raise. They wanted a second child. “This is 1973,” he would remind her, “And yet a teacher doesn’t even clear nine grand a year...” Then he would touch her gently and say, “I promise you, Beth, I will never, ever accept this kind of money again.”

I let some time pass before I saw Howie again. He needed time to balance his past act with the reality of his future. I needed time to live my life as a single man once more.

Howie’s daughter was now six years old; his wife was pregnant with their second child. I decided to visit them, with a bottle of vino as a peace offering. Bottle in one hand and flowers for the wife in the other, I politely knocked.

Howie answered, and he was none too happy. “You again,” he said, “I thought I was done with you.”

We sat at his table and drank the wine. That is, I drank it. Howie kind of halfway stared into the glass. Finally I spoke.

“I guess we don’t have much to talk about these days,” I said.

“The gameplaying is over. It’s been over for years,” he responded, “I have nothing to learn from you now.” Then he added, “Please forget about me and my family.”

I left quietly, hoping that time would blot out our differences.

I let a few years pass. Howie’s daughter was now nine, and Howie Jr. was welcomed into their family. It is a blessing to a man to have a son to carry on the family name. I almost hated to disturb Howie, but circumstances demanded I must.

Through the years, I pulled off whatever jobs Chen Yoo needed to be done, always hoping Howie would forever be forgotten. However, Chen was planning the biggest heist yet, one that would require teams loaded with lots of hardware and the type of lawbreakers that could do an honest day’s work for him.

“That kid brother of yours,” Chen said, “He did us a good turn once. How’s about cutting him in once more?”

“Absolutely not” I responded, “Howie’s clean now. He wants no more part of this!”

Of course, Chen Yoo knew, and he knew that I knew, that no one has the luxury of just quitting. He made it clear that I was to involve Howie “just this one more time.”

After much pleading, Howie agreed to meet me at an open-air café in the Bronx. I explained the situation to him.

Howie again stared vacantly into his drink and said, “Never again. I’ve been haunted by that life that was taken and asked God to forgive me…"
“What do you want with your life?”, I asked him, “Don’t you want those things you haven’t been able to…”

“What I want,” he interrupted, “is to honor The Lord with my life, to be a good father, watch my son grow up, see my daughter marry…”

My words were way out of balance with Howie’s desires. Having two failed marriages to deal with, I was in no way the one to lecture him. I just hoped Chen Yoo would miraculously be in a forgiving mood.

Howie returned home to spoil his infant son and heap kisses upon his daughter. I had hoped secretly he had finally found balance in his life.

Chen Yoo’s wishes were the exact opposite. He had never learned to accept “no” as an answer.

Howie never suspected the fat man in the black suit that silently traced his steps.

I wasn’t there to witness the rest of the story, though I cannot block it from my mind’s eye. Chen Yoo, as was his custom, had the local florist deliver the parcel to Howie’s home. His wife accepted it with glee, tearing the box open, her heart pounding with desire for her husband.

What she found inside disturbed and puzzled her. It was a single black orchid. Chen Yoo knew well that such an orchid signified mystery, strength, and power. A black orchid is also a symbol of death and mourning.

The fat man waited patiently as Howie returned home from work. He allowed Howie a bit of time to realize the significance of the flower. Then he burst in the door.

Howie made a grab for him, but a shot in the left shoulder floored him. He tried to rise with all his remaining strength as the fat man wrapped his arms around his wife and blew a hole in her head. Howie screamed, calling out her name, and wept uncontrollably. Then the gunsel set his sites on the young girl, handing her a favorite doll as he shot through the doll’s clothing, the bullet lodging in her heart. Then, he shot Howie in his right leg. Finally, he went for Howie Jr.

Trying to right himself, but failing, Howie cried out, “Please! Not my son! I want to see my son grow up!”

Wrapping the child in a blanket, the fat man raced out the door holding the child as he blasted Howie’s head open. The last thing Howie heard was, “I got a friend who has a thing for babies!”

As I said, this was all in my mind’s eye, though I knew what had transpired. Howie was not able to maintain his balance.

Now I walk the balance between my life, such as it was, and creeping along dark streets in fallen neighborhoods. I drink from borrowed liquor. I hide from the echoes of screams of that pipsqueak ice-sliding kid who didn’t know better than to listen to his big brother.