Wrong Address

Brandon Terrell

I’m pretty sure the package wasn’t for me. The UPS guy had just dropped it off, a
small box wrapped in butcher’s paper without a return address. With a finger inside.
Female from the look of it.
I stared at it over a bowl of Corn Pops that was no longer going to be eaten. The
soggy cereal just floated there, while the box with the finger lay open next to it. Huh. It
looked real. It was resting in a pile of blood-saturated tissues, crusty and dry and dark
red. Sparkly purple polish was flaking off the dirty nail. I wracked my brain, wondering if
I’d pissed anyone off enough for them to ruin my breakfast or if I’d slept with any bizarre
women who had a funny way of showing their affection. No, I was in a rare dry spell,
both with enemies and with women. So clearly, the finger was not meant for me.
I closed the box. Dumped the cereal in the drain. Changed out of my pajamas.
Combed my hair. And decided to drive to the police station.
The box rode shotgun. Every red light I hit, I glanced over, made sure it hadn’t
tipped and spilled open, that the index finger wasn’t rolling around my classy Corolla
interior. I decided it was an index finger. It had the length and roundness of an index
finger, but what the hell do I know? I’m used to seeing a finger in the context of a whole
hand. Could have been a pinky, I suppose.
The desk clerk at the police station, a pear-shaped woman with thick glasses on a
chain, like an old time librarian, nearly screamed when I presented her with the box.
“Holy ghost! Is that—is that a…? Well, is it real?”
I shrugged.
“Guess so. Think so. The UPS guy didn’t tell me. There was no note.”
“Please close it.”
Her magical, chubby fingers seemed to haphazardly dial random numbers on the
cream-colored phone. Her eyes remained fixated on the box. I stared at them, her fingers.
Thought about what it would look like if there were one less.
“Detective Hanley will be right out. Have a seat.”
I sat with the finger in my lap. Read a magazine.
Hanley was a tall, wide-eyed fella whose face looked like he was constantly being
told he had won the lottery. He had a strong grip.
“Call me Chester.”
I followed Chester to an office, a cramped, windowless place that appeared to
have been recently ransacked.
“Sorry about the mess. Controlled chaos. If this place were ever clean, I wouldn’t
know where anything was. Am I right?”
I nodded. Sat down in a lumpy chair. A spring strained to get free, jabbed into my
thigh.
Chester sat across the desk from me, reached out, palm up.
“May I see it?”
 I gave him the box. He sucked his breath in through his teeth, as if attempting to
dislodge a wedge of his breakfast from an incisor. He examined the box. Brought it close
to his face, and sniffed it.
I wrinkled my nose in disgust. Really? Sniffing it?
Chester set the box between us on the desk, atop a pile of loose paper. His eyes
worked me over.
“And this was just sent to you?”
“Yes.”
“You have no idea who sent it?”
“No.”
“Any reason why someone would send you a finger? Enemies? Scorned lovers?”
“None.
“It’s not yours?”
I held up my hands. Wiggled my digits.
“All ten, sir.”
“Not what I meant.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you aren’t the one who chopped off the finger, put it in the box, and then
brought it in, acting all innocent and what not?”
“I was just eating cereal, sir.”
He sucked more air between his teeth. Closed the box. Put it in a plastic bag.
Marked the plastic bag. Put the plastic bag in a manila envelope. Marked that.
“Should be easy enough to run prints.” He tapped the folder, smirked.
I sat there, in that uncomfortable seat, as Chester rifled through his mess of
papers, snatched up a form, scribbled down my statement. Finally, he dotted the last ‘i’,
tossed his pen with a rattle atop the desk.
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
I shook his hand, massive and cold with hairy knuckles. A heavy pinky ring
weighed it down.
The desk clerk tried to be nonchalant as I walked out. She was on the phone,
talking in hushed tones. I waved. She didn’t wave back.

It was night. I had just finished a delectable meal of Salisbury steak smothered in
pseudo-gravy with corn niblets and what was supposed to be mashed potatoes. All right,
it was one of those microwave deals. Sue me. I’m a single guy in his forties with no wife,
no kids. I pushed back the TV tray holding my empty plastic container with Jackson
Pollack-inspired gravy smears, and I cracked open my second Summit.
The news was on. Some story about a puppy who followed his family from Ohio
to here. Cute. They were sugaring me up for the one-two punch to the gut I was about to
get.
 “—search continues for Roberta Grubel, twenty-five year old daughter of Rupert
Grubel. Grubel is the fast food magnate and owner of the Burger Chomp chain of
restaurants.”
A photo flashed on screen. A stunning beauty with a wide smile and big teeth.
The photo was a self portrait, taken at arm’s length, the camera flash blasting out any
sense of depth or definition. Two of Roberta’s fingers were held up in a ‘peace’ sign. I
stared at the fingers, mesmerized by them. I pictured one of them resting snugly in a
tissue-coated box, bleeding.
My stomach did barrel rolls all night, and I could not sleep. Didn’t know if it was
the news story or the Salisbury steak. Probably a healthy dose of both.

I was sweaty from work. I mow lawns, chop weeds, and plant flowers for the city.
So I was sweaty and smelled like soil and cut grass. I just wanted a shower. I checked my
mail on the way in from my car.
Bills. Victoria’s Secret coupon. Hardware ad. Blank envelope with no return
address. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I tore it open. A crisp, neatly folded piece of white paper was inside. It crackled
and partially stuck together as I pried it carefully open. Dried glue. On the paper was a
collage of magazine letters formed into words. People actually make ransom notes like
this? I thought that was only in the movies.
DO WE HAVE YOUR ATENTION? GIVE US ONE AND A HALF MILLION
DOLLERS OR WE KILL HER. HARD. AND UGLY.
I sighed. Folded the sheet of paper back up, tucked it into the envelope. I suppose
Detective Hanley should see this.
But I was gonna shower first.

“People actually make ransom notes like this? Thought that was only in the
movies.”
I was back in Chester’s office. He once again insisted I call him that. Something
about Detective Hanley being his father. I told him that didn’t make sense to me, but he
only chuckled and shrugged it off.
“Spelled dollars wrong. And attention.”
I hadn’t noticed that. Then again, I hadn’t scrutinized it at length while holding it
up by a pair of tweezers and wearing a pair of gloves. The way Chester was.
Chester’s gloves squeaked as he picked up a smoldering cigar from an ashtray
shaped like a police badge, made by a kid. He took a long puff, pondering.
“I think it has to do with the missing Grubel girl.”
He arched an eyebrow, stared me down.
“Do you now?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Well that’s interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
 “I mean, we haven’t released that information to the public, so how would you
know the two were linked?”
“Saw something on the news. Figured the two were connected.”
“You doin’ my job for me now, Dirty Harry? Like we didn’t figure out that the
missing finger belonged to Roberta Grubel.”
My friendship with Chester Hanley had hit a rough patch.
“I’m sorry sir.”
“Go home. Leave the police investigation to people who are trained to do the
job.”
I stood, offered my hand as a sign of peace. Chester eyeballed it, stood, stretched
the plastic glove off his hand until it snapped in a cloud of dry powder, and shook it.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
Behind me, as his office door closed, I could hear him on the phone.
“We got another clue on the Grubel case.”

It was dark when I got home. I stopped and rented a movie, some lighthearted
romantic comedy with that blonde actress with the great ass. Something to try to take my
mind off Roberta Grubel.
A van was parked down the street, on the far side of the block. It was under a
streetlamp. Not very conspicuous. A man sat inside, sipping from a disposable coffee
cup.
I waved. At least Detective Hanley had someone looking out for me.

Someone pounded on my door while I was climbing out of the shower. I cursed,
grabbed for my towel, stubbed my toe on the rim of the tub, cursed louder, wrapped the
towel around my wet waist, hobbled to the door. A UPS truck rumbled away as I opened
it. They’d left a package on the step.
“Don’t touch it!”
I looked up. A man in a Member’s Only jacket, with a prize-worthy walrus
mustache and dark circles under his eyes, walked up the street. He was waving his arms.
“What?!”
“The box! Don’t touch the box!”
He dug into his coat, pulled out a badge. Down the block, the door to his van was
still open.
Inside my house, he phoned Chester. The cop’s name was Glenn. The new box,
slightly bigger than the previous one containing Roberta Grubel’s index finger, sat open
on my table.
This time, the sadistic fucker sent me a middle finger.
Also, there was a note.
WE WANT OUR MONNEY! TIME IS RUNING OUT!
“Same color polish…I don’t know…what was it? Something funny…Catherine
the Grape…yeah…”
 His mustache wiggled back and forth as he spoke. I couldn’t help but stare at it. I
adjusted the bag of melting ice on my foot. I was still in a towel.
Glenn had opened the box per Hanley’s request. Sure, there was an element of
danger – what if the kidnapper sent a bomb instead of a middle finger? – but I guess that
didn’t seem to matter to Chester and Glenn.
“I’ll tell him…”
Glenn cradled the phone on his shoulder.
“Chester’s coming himself. Gonna rig the place up, stake it out tonight. All
right?”
I looked around. My place was in shambles. I wasn’t really expecting company.
“Whatever.”
Glenn pulled a mustache comb from his jacket, began to methodically stroke the
fine hair under his lip. Every once in a while, he would grunt assent to something Chester
said.
I went up to put on some clothes, my injured foot leaving wet prints on the wood
floor.

Chester sat next to me on the couch. We were watching The Mary Tyler Moore
Show. Chester was loving it, laughing raucously until he snorted. I was uncomfortable. It
was three in the morning.
“That Lou Grant kills me, just absolutely slays me!”
“Uh-huh.”
Chester was drinking a tall glass of flat Coke and ice. Sweat beaded on the glass.
He took a swig, sloshed some onto his chin, wiped it with his tie.
I was onto my fourth beer. They still tasted good, even though I was beyond tired.
“Ted Knight!”
Glenn’s voice from my dining room. He had made himself at home, set up
surveillance equipment, tapped my phone, installed a camera by my front door.
“Ted Knight! That’s it! I love that bastard.”
I’d had to piss for over an hour, too uneasy with the situation to get up, praying
that if I remained still, they would go away. I couldn’t hold it any more.
The bathroom was through the dining room, near the front door. I passed Glenn,
who was burrowing another hole into his nose with his finger and was too focused to stop
as I hobbled around him. My toe was still throbbing. Probably broke the fucker.
I got to the bathroom. Closed the door.
A window sat over the toilet. Looked down on my side yard, a couple of burning
bushes, a row of pines. The moon gave me enough light to piss in the dark and hit the
bowl ninety percent of the time.
I stared out the window. Maybe I could open it, slither out, escape. They wouldn’t
know if I was gone. At least not for a while.
A shadow moved. Probably just the wind. Nope. Moved again. With purpose. A
hand emerged from the pine, an arm, then a whole torso.
I thought about calling out to the boys. Remembered I still had my dick in my
hand. Shook it and tucked it.
 My movement alerted the intruder.. His head jerked up, looking in the window,
like a deer in headlights We made eye contact. He reached behind him, to his waist.
A glint of steel in the moonlight as he pointed a gun at the window.
“Fuck!”
Glass shattered around me. I heard a whistle as the bullet sliced through my ear,
cracked the door behind me. I hit the floor, bleeding on the white tile.
I could hardly hear. It was like someone had shoved cotton in my ears, was slowly
pulling it out.
My hearing returned as Glenn pounded on the door, a thunderous sound in the
cramped space.
“You okay?! You okay?!”
I staggered to my feet. Peeked out the broken window. The shooter was gone.
There was a commotion around front, two more pops from a gun. Chester’s voice calling
for Glenn, yelling for the intruder to throw down his weapon.
I popped the latch, swung open the door. Glenn held his own firearm, a small
thing, looking frightened. The front door was open, and Chester was no where in sight.
“Holy shit, your ear!”
More pops outside.
“Oh fuck, we need help. Where’s my walkie? Shit!”
Glenn began to move for the dining room.
“Glenn?”
He stopped. Turned. Chester stood framed in the doorway, blood soaking through
his pale green shirt. He was using his tie to plug the hole in his stomach.
“More than…one…”
“What?”
“Saw one…around…”
The side of Chester’s temple disappeared in a red cloud, spraying against the
door. Glenn jumped back, raised his gun. I shielded myself behind him. Chester’s body
tumbled to the wood floor, like his bones had been liquefied. His right hand hit last, his
pinky ring making a loud crack against the wood.
I stared at his finger. All this because of a finger.
Glenn rushed clumsily to Chester’s body, leaped over it, slipped on blood,
stumbled, ran headlong out the door.
Chester’s gun lay on the floor by his side. I stared at it, at the body, at Chester’s
pinky ring and hairy knuckles. I hobbled over, scooped up the weapon.
I’d never held a gun, never heard the malevolent sound of gunfire this close. The
kind of gunfire meant to end someone’s life.
The steel was cold. It was heavier than I expected.
I needed help. I could hear Glenn out front, trading gunshots with the intruder. In
a squat, I duckwalked to Glenn’s giant apparatus in the dining room. Every waddle stung
needles up my leg.
I grabbed a walkie off my table. Thumbed the side.
“Can anyone hear me? Anyone? I need back-up.”
Static. Then:
“Who is this? Over.”
“Chester and Glenn…they’re in trouble. Chester…he’s…he’s dead.”
 “Repeat. You’re breaking up. Detective Hanley? Over.”
I realized something. The gunshots had ceased.
I looked up, basked in the glow of the monitor attached to my security light above
the front door. On the screen, Glenn wrestled with the intruder.
Suddenly, his chest blew backward, and he fell to the side. I stifled a cry. Glenn
was still moving, grabbing his gun. He fired. The intruder’s black stocking cap flew off
comically. Not so comically, half his head was still inside the cap.
Glenn fell back, sprawled out on my front lawn.
I stood up. Thumbed the walkie.
“Glenn, too. Whoever’s there, I need back-up. I have two officers down and—“
The equipment exploded in sparks, lighting up the dark room. I dropped the
walkie.
“What the fuck!? “
It was a high voice, whiny. A man stood in the living room, arms out in
exasperation. A port wine birthmark covered much of his face, and his hair flowed behind
him in a mullet.
Flickers of television light strobed behind him, as Mary and Lou fought about
something. I’m sure it was hilarious, just not in my current situation.
“Stupid Dale! Fuckhead wasn’t supposed to shoot!”
“Please don’t kill me.”
“It didn’t have to go down like this. We just wanted the money.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any money. You have the wrong
address.”
“What?”
“The wrong address. You have the wrong place.”
“You’re not Rupert Grubel?”
“Do I look like Rupert Grubel? Do I look anything like Rupert Grubel?”
“The hell should I know? I don’t know what the fucker looks like.”
“I’m not him.”
“Fuck!”
The guy began to pace, jabbing his gun toward me for emphasis. I hid my own
gun against my side. He didn’t see it.
“She told us this was the address. Bitch! Even after we cut off a finger. Two
fingers! God dammit! Oh, she’s gonna pay. That conniving little whore is gonna pay!”
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper. Showed it to me, pointing at
the chicken scratch.
“118 Cherry Lane. Right?”
I nodded.
“Right? 118. Fuckin’ bitch!”
“Wait, did you say ‘Cherry?’”
“Yeah.”
“This is 118 Cheery Lane. Like happy, not like the fruit.”
“What?”
“Cheery. Not Cherry. You, um, you spelled it wrong.”
He scrutinized the paper, held it up to his nose. Slowly lowered it.
 Rage was in his eyes. He glared at me, and I felt like a school teacher telling a
student they’d done poorly. Well, a student with a gun. He scratched his head with the
barrel of the weapon, flakes of dry skin fluttering off his birthmark. Through the open
front door, I could hear neighbors yelling to one another, and beyond that, sirens.
In slow motion, I saw him begin to bring the gun down, leveling it at me. I felt the
heavy weight of Chester’s gun begin to move up, rise from my side like a fucking
cowboy in a shootout.
His eyes grew wide. Nope, he hadn’t seen my gun.
I fired once. Splintered the wood floor. Still brought the gun up. Fired again. Hit
his foot. His balance was off. His gun bucked, missed me. Still rising, I fired again. Mary
Tyler Moore shattered into a million pieces. He shot. I felt the slug bury itself into my
right side, by my abdomen. It burned. I fell backward.
But not before firing a last time.
A hole appeared in the birthmark, above his right eye. The eye twitched. The gun
fell. He followed, landing on top of my defunct television.

I lay in an antiseptic hospital room, courtesy of the local police department and
the FBI. My house was a crime scene, swarming with uniforms like an anthill.
I had a bandage around my side, from where they dug the bullet out. I also had a
broken toe and half an ear, for the record.
On television, Roberta Grubel was being led out of a ramshackle rambler, a little
dirty, shaking. Her right hand was poorly bandaged, dried blood caked throughout.
“—safe and sound. Ms. Grubel’s attackers and police were involved in a tragic
shootout last night, at an undisclosed location. Both attackers and officers were
pronounced dead at the scene. Identification on one of the attackers led police directly to
this home, where Ms. Grubel was found with minor injuries.”
Apparently missing two fingers is considered minor.
“An informant, who assisted police, remains unnamed.”
Unnamed. Fine by me.