by Darcia Helle
***
Back down the now familiar roads in the same seedy part of the city. Michael was less than a mile from Ray Nelson’s address, driving the rented Toyota slowly through the neighborhood. Two prostitutes hung out on a corner. Couldn’t be much business on this steamy Saturday afternoon. They hooted at him as he drove past. Sweat formed a river down their ample chests, disappearing down the front of their low-cut tank tops.
Nelson’s house appeared to be shut up tight. The man didn’t own a car. Michael had managed to find that out through the Department of Motor Vehicles. One of the perks of knowing computers inside out was that he could crack into just about any system. That made information much easier to come by.
So no car. A tiny house that he probably shared with roaches. The guy couldn’t have much money and more than likely hung out with crack addicts and drunks. Where would someone like that go on a Saturday afternoon when the temperature hovered at 90?
Michael cruised around the block and out to Fifth Avenue. A middle-aged woman with skin the texture of leather pushed a shopping cart full of junk along the jagged sidewalk. Michael fished a 100-dollar bill from his wallet as he swung over to the curb. He lowered his window, held the bill out, and said to the woman, “Why don’t you find a motel to cool off in.”
She stopped walking. Her eyes darted suspiciously from the 100-dollar bill to Michael’s face. She stood about three feet away. Even at that distance, the smell of her rancid sweat managed to creep into the car. He smiled at her and said, “It’s okay. Take it.”
“What I gotta do for it?” she asked.
“Promise you’ll get a room, take a long cool bath, and eat something.”
She took a hesitant step toward him. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Another step. Fear crept into her eyes, along with a glimmer of something else. Hope, maybe. She said, “You don’t want nothing?”
Michael shook his head. He let the bill dangle from his fingertips. “Go ahead,” he said. “Take it.”
She leaned forward, reaching out and snatching the bill from him. She seemed confused to find herself holding it with no resistance. Sweat slid down her forehead. She looked at him and offered a toothless smile.
“Enjoy yourself,” Michael said. “And be careful.”
He eased the car from the curb. Very little traffic in this part of town. He drifted along until he reached the first barroom on the block. Seemed a likely place for an ex-con with no car and not much money to be on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Michael swung into the parking lot, locked the Toyota, and strode toward the front door.
Three more stops. This time a hole-in-the-wall on a side street. Inside, the atmosphere was typical of the last few bars he’d been in. Stale smoke, cheap whiskey, and cheaper cologne. Michael adopted the slow stride of a man with nothing better to do than spend his afternoon getting drunk. He’d dressed down for the day, in worn denim shorts and an old t-shirt. He’d left his Ray Bans in the glove box and hadn’t shaved this morning. He figured he blended in just fine. Unremarkable. One of the guys.
He sank onto a stool at the far end of the bar. He’d spotted Ray Nelson right away. Four stools separated them. Nelson sat beside an older man with a scruffy gray beard. Two empty shot glasses and two bottles of Budweiser stood in front of them. They spoke in a drunken drawl about “that Pam bitch.”
Michael ordered a Guinness and listened to Nelson boast about how he intended to handle “the bitch”. The old guy muttered an agreement, then something about teaching women their place. Michael stared into his bottle and fought the compulsion to kill them both.
That, apparently, was one of the problems with killing for a living. It changed who you were and how you thought. Killing became too much of a natural instinct.
Michael ordered a second beer. He sipped while studying Nelson’s movements from the corner of his eye. He listened to Nelson’s voice, digested the words, and sifted through the information for what he needed. And, as he drank, he planned Nelson’s murder.
Chapter 7
Michael sat at the bar listening to Nelson and his buddy for a full 30 minutes. He’d spent the last 28 of those minutes intermittently reminding himself that killing both men while at a bar in broad daylight with a handful of witnesses was not a particularly smart idea.
For the past few minutes the two men had been discussing deer hunting and the thrill each of them got from looking into the eyes of the animal as it died. When the conversation turned to young girls and how they were all “begging for it” with the way they dressed, Michael tossed a 20 on the bar and walked outside. He found he was in desperate need of oxygen. Instead he received a hot heavy cloud of pollution to breathe. He sucked in the stale wet heat and let his lungs figure out what to do with it.
Over by the curb he found a newspaper machine. He stuck his coins in and pulled out a St. Petersburg Times. Then he leaned against the machine and glanced down at the top of the folded paper. Another photo of Iraq. This one an attempt to move away from the gruesome, alluding to a happy coexistence between Iraqis and American soldiers. A little late for that type of media spin.
Michael’s shirt quickly grew damp. Sweat gathered in beads over the entire surface of his skin. He considered going back in the bar, spreading the paper out, and pretending to read while eavesdropping on more of the conversation. He’d been hoping to get a feel for Nelson’s routine. So far all he’d gotten was confirmation that the man needed to die.
Michael stayed where he was, fairly certain that another 30 minutes listening to Nelson explain his reasoning for occasionally beating women to “train them” would prompt an earlier than expected death. Hell, it wouldn’t take 30 minutes. One more word out of Nelson’s mouth would probably be enough. Therefore, more time in the bar wasn’t a good idea.
He scanned the remaining articles on the front page. Flood damage. The sad state of their health care system. Certainly nothing uplifting. Not that he’d expected there to be. After all, good news did not sell newspapers.
He folded the paper and was staring at the barroom door contemplating ways to kill Nelson when the subject of his thoughts emerged. Nelson’s step held a bit of a stagger. Or maybe more of a drunken sway. Their eyes met in a direct contact that felt almost like a physical touch. Nelson’s hard beady eyes narrowed to mere slits. He adopted that expression that aimed for intimidation.
Michael almost yawned. He’d stopped being scared on the day he’d walked into the morgue and looked down on a metal slab to find the love of his life beaten and frozen in death.
“What the fuck you staring at?” Nelson grumbled.
Michael’s own expression remained impassively disinterested. Inside, his blood bordered on boiling. He thought about death and balance and this man’s role in the world. He kept his stance casual and said nothing to calm or provoke Nelson.
“You got a fucking death wish?” Nelson snapped. Spittle flew from his mouth with the words. He folded his arms in front of him and glared.
Prison yard behavior. Marking your territory like a pack dog. This one was rearing up on his hind legs and flashing his balls. Big deal.
Slam his skull one good time onto the pavement and that would be the end of it all. But now wasn’t the time and this wasn’t the place. Michael kept his voice neutral and said, “I’m just standing here melting in the heat.”
For a moment Nelson looked as though he wasn’t sure what to do with that. He’d been expecting a fight. Looking for one. Or he was just used to that way of life, as if it were inevitable.
Two drunks staggered out of the bar. Both somewhere between 30 and 50, looking disheveled and worn. They made it to the corner before one threw up and the other laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever witnessed.
Nelson’s posture had relaxed. Finally he said, “It is fucking hot out here.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. Probably the only thing they’d ever agree on.
“Makes me lazy and edgy as hel
l.”
“I hear you.” Michael was really impressing himself with his conversational skills now. Three words and still he managed to remain composed.
“I gotta work tonight,” Nelson said. “You believe that shit? So much for fucking weekends. Only the rich bastards get to have a life.”
That information managed to peak Michael’s interest. He kept his tone disinterested as he said, “That does suck.”
“Only good thing,” Nelson said, “is Saturday nights we usually get lots of eye candy coming in.”
“Yeah?”
“You should see some of the bitches. And, you know, it’s hot so they don’t wear much. Then they act like you ain’t supposed to stare. Fucking whores.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Some of ‘em, they strut around flashing their shit, then they scream rape when they get what they been asking for.”
Michael had to concentrate on controlling his facial muscles. His fingers clenched the newspaper while they wanted to wrap around Nelson’s neck. The rage was about to blow right out the top of his head. He swallowed it back and said, “You work around here? Sounds like I’m missing out.”
“The Citgo Station right down there.” Nelson waved his hand to the right. “The bitches come in the store, think if they flash their tits at me that I’ll pump their fucking gas. Like I’m a trained monkey or something.”
“Useless whores,” Michael said, squeezing the words from his clenched jaw.
“Hey, you live around here?”
“Looking for a place.”
“Me and my buddies, we hang here all the time. I’m Ray.”
“Tom,” Michael said.
“Cool. I gotta get moving. Tomorrow, you’re around, stop in the bar. Have a beer with us.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Later dude.”
As Nelson turned to walk back to his house, Michael was already busy working out the details in his mind. Today, if all went well, would be Ray Nelson’s last day to stink up this planet.
Chapter 8
Back home again. Michael glanced at the refrigerator as he passed through the kitchen. The idea of food didn’t appeal to him but in the silence Ruby’s voice filled his head with one of her lectures about his eating habits. He smiled at that and made a silent promise to her that he would eat something soon.
He pushed open the French doors leading out to his back yard. Squinting into the sun, he stripped off his t-shirt and dropped it onto a nearby lounge chair. His property spanned nearly two acres. A rarity in this part of Florida. A six-foot white vinyl fence enveloped the yard. His pool glistened blue in the late afternoon sunlight. A nice secluded spot. Someday he’d learn to enjoy it more often.
Inside, the phone began to ring. Michael made no attempt to answer it. The machine would pick it up and record what would likely be a string of slurred words from his father that he’d later have to decipher. For now he didn’t care.
As the sun slid behind a cloud, Michael stepped out of his shorts and jumped naked into the pool. He swam 50 laps, hard and fast. Barely winded, he rolled onto his back and watched the clouds float past. He thought about Ray Nelson and death. He tried to picture the guy as an innocent child, loved by his parents. The picture wouldn’t come.
His thoughts turned to his father and the alcohol that had rotted his father’s brain. Some blamed the alcohol. He blamed the weakness of the man. Then he tried to gather an image of his mother. What his brain offered was Ruby’s smiling face.
And so went the self-inflicted torture of these occasional strolls he took down memory lane. His mother’s face had faded from his mind many years ago. He had been seven when she’d packed up her old Chevy and planted that last kiss on his forehead. She’d taken Tracy, his five-year-old sister, with her. When he’d protested, then pleaded through tears for her not to leave him, she’d announced indifferently that boys belonged with their fathers. Boys needed, according to her, a man to teach them.
As the years passed, he’d come to realize that her leaving him but taking Tracy had nothing to do with her claim of boys needing their fathers. She’d taken what she’d wanted and had left the rest behind. Michael had been part of the leftovers, like the chipped knickknacks and the wedding photos.
Soon after that day, Michael’s father had burned the photos and tossed the knickknacks. He supposed he should feel lucky that his father hadn’t tossed him as well.
So when Michael became nostalgic and his thoughts turned to his childhood and his mother, Ruby’s face was always most prominent. The big smile and sparkling eyes. The milk and cookies she’d give him and Isaac after school and the chicken soup she’d bring over when he didn’t feel well. She’d never commented on his mother’s physical absence or his father’s emotional absence. What she had done was step in and quietly become a huge presence in his life. And he loved her for it.
***
The phone rang just as Michael stepped out of the shower. He dripped a path across the bedroom and checked the caller ID before picking up. Isaac greeted him with a cheery, “About damn time. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“Contrary to popular opinion,” Michael said, “I do occasionally leave my house on weekends.”
“And, what, you don’t know how to check your answering machine when you get home? Or answer your cell phone? Return calls? You get a sudden case of dementia and can’t remember my number?”
More like he had a bad case of avoidance when the ringing phone made him think of his father. He said, “Dementia could be a possibility.”
“Well pull yourself together. Come have dinner with me and Nadine.”
“Thanks for the offer but -”
“Don’t even think about it,” Isaac cut in. “The only excuse we’ll take is that you have a naked girl waiting in your bed. Or one waiting in her bed for you. Either of those happening for you tonight?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“I’ll take that as a no. We’re going to Mulligan’s. And this was Nadine’s idea, so don’t give me the crap about not wanting to bust into our time together.”
“How about the third wheel thing?”
“Pretend we’re a tricycle.”
“What?”
“Three wheels are good sometimes.”
“Two or four are usually better.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Isaac said. “We’re not riding a bike. Or driving a car. We’re sitting in a damn restaurant. No wheels and it don’t matter if the chairs are grouped in odds or evens.”
Michael couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“See you then.
Michael grabbed his car keys and was heading out the door when his phone rang yet again. He backtracked and checked his caller ID. The display read John Sykora. His hand hovered over the phone as it rang. His brain told him to answer but his fingers would not cooperate. Finally the machine picked up.
His father’s voice, surprisingly coherent, said, “Mike, pick up the phone. I know you’re dodging me, damn it, pick up.” A brief silence, then in an unusually subdued tone, “I really need to talk to you. Call me. Please.”
The “please” caught Michael off guard. He considered calling his father back to see what was so important. The way his father’s drunken mind worked, odds were it was nothing more than him needing a few bucks to buy another bottle of gin. Or a pity-party because he’d lost another job. Michael didn’t have the time or the patience for that right now.
He walked out. He climbed into his Porsche and cranked the radio as he drove. He didn’t want to think about his father. Nor did he want to think about the job he had to do later that evening. He focused on the DJ’s nonsense and the guitar riffs in the songs that played. The engine hummed and the car glided along the highway. For awhile he wasn’t the abandoned son of a mother who couldn’t love him enough, the son of a drunk, the fiancé of a murdered woman, or a hired killer. He was just Michael, a guy out for a ride o
n a warm Saturday evening.
***
The restaurant was tucked into its own little corner of the bay. Tables with umbrellas were sprinkled across the deck in the back. Michael found Isaac and Nadine there, sipping wine and watching the ocean. He was struck by how good they looked together. Content in that way that said you’d found where you belong in life. Envy grabbed at his heart and gave it a tight squeeze.
Michael managed to smile and greet them and pretend that loneliness didn’t sometimes grip him in its endless void. He ordered a Guinness from a cute brunette waitress in a very tight t-shirt. Once she’d moved away, he turned his attention to Nadine. He said, “You look radiant this evening.”
She grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Why thank you, Michael,” she said.
“What about me?” Isaac asked.
“Good enough to turn a man gay,” Michael said.
Isaac chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
The evening went on that way, lighthearted chatter and a good meal. The sun sank low against the ocean. Michael grew restless, his mind drifting to the job awaiting him.
Ray Nelson’s words played over and over like a broken record. “…then they scream rape when they get what’s coming to them.” Voices echoed through his head. Young women begging for the creep to stop, begging for their lives. The pain in Tom Emery’s voice as he spoke about what Nelson had done to his daughter. All this recycled itself many times over, playing in the background even as he laughed at Isaac’s jokes.
Dessert came. Some kind of layered tort. Or was it a tart? Either way, it tasted fine and eating gave him an excuse not to talk. He’d run out of conversation. His mind had stalled. Ray Nelson had pushed to the forefront of his thoughts. Time to get the job done.
Nadine excused herself and headed to the ladies’ room. Isaac watched her go, smiling in his silly way that was almost a childish glee. When he turned back, Michael said, “You two are good together.”
