Me Again by Keith Cronin

brain damage – ain’t that a kick in the balls?”
    Wow – even Leon wasn’t that direct with me.
    Brandon lowered his voice, finally getting to the point. “So what I need to know is where’s the money?”
    “The money?”
    “The money we scammed, Jon-Jon! We had just gotten things moving when you went all Terri Schiavo on me. I brokered the deals, but you handled the mechanics. So you had all the money.”
    Brandon glared at me, his voice dropping an octave. “And half of it is mine.”

 
    Chapter 11
     
    T HIS HAD GONE FAR ENOUGH.
    “Brandon,” I said, “I have to tell you – I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    I guess I was expecting him to register some surprise. Instead, his eyes narrowed.
    “Well, isn’t that convenient?” he said.
    “Convenient?”
    “This was just what I was worried you might do. Play the coma card.”
    “Coma card?” I stammered, apparently unable to do anything but repeat his words.
    “Yeah. Pretty fucking convenient. You’ve got the money, you have a coma, and voila – you just can’t seem to remember where that money is.” Brandon shook his head. “I can’t believe you’d pull this on me, after all I did for you.”
    “I’m not pulling anything,” I protested. “I don’t remember anything about any money.”
    Aware that I was becoming a bit shrill, I softened my voice. “Brandon, I have major memory loss. Major . I barely remember anything. Or anybody.”
    “Yeah, but you remembered me,” he said, his face growing red as he spoke. I realized then that my earlier tactic of trying to conceal my memory loss was backfiring.
    “Well, no – not really,” I said. “Teddy mentioned you, but other than that, I really don’t remember you.”
    “This is bullshit!” Brandon was out of his chair now. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me, but instead he began pacing back and forth on the small stretch of open floor.
    He stopped, pointing at me. “So you expect me to believe you don’t remember a fucking thing from our past?”
    “It’s the truth,” I said, offering a lame shrug.
    Brandon lowered his voice – and his finger – attempting a calmer approach. “Look, Jon-Jon. I can understand not wanting to admit to anything, particularly with what’s been going on in our line of work recently. But this is you and me talking. We’ve been through a lot together. I’m not asking you to confess your sins to the world.”
    He edged closer to me. “I’m asking you where you put the fucking money. Before you took your little siesta, we should have racked up around three hundred K, maybe even four hundred. So I figure you owe me at least a hundred and fifty K.”
    I saw that straight denial was getting me nowhere with the man, and his tone suggested that these were large numbers. So I looked for a way to stall.
    “Brandon, I’m sorry. I do have brain damage, and I’ve suffered a lot of memory loss. But it’s coming back, bit by bit.”
    This seemed to encourage Brandon, who took a slightly more relaxed stance in front of me.
    “It’s just taking me a while to get my brain back together. I mean, remember, I was ‘switched off’ for a long time. I need to... recharge my batteries.”
    I saw this was going over fairly well, and once again noted how I seemed able to speak much more eloquently when I was trying to deceive or manipulate somebody. But as I gained more awareness of what sort of man I’d been, this was starting to make sense.
    “So, how long until you’re fully recharged?” Brandon said.
    I gave another one of my trademark shrugs. “Nobody knows. Hell, nobody’s even figured out why I’m even awake. They say it’s a medical miracle.” I know, I was pushing it, but they did say that, after all.
    Brandon smiled bitterly. “That’s great, miracle boy. But how much do you remember?”
    I pondered this. I didn’t think I wanted this man to be aware of the full extent of my problems – it seemed like that could make me