Come Join The Murder

by Holly Rae Garcia

  She climbed into the front passenger seat, keeping the gun pointed at him. For the first time since she spotted him, she was able to get a good long look at the man who took everything from her. He looked average enough. His dark brown skin was weather-worn from years of fishing or working outside, and remnants of curly black hair peeked out from beneath his ball cap. The whites of his eyes reflected the street light as he stared at the gun in her hands. He clasped his shaking hands tightly together in his lap. An acrid smell filled the van and Rebecca looked down to see a dark stain spreading between his legs. Disgusted, she waved the gun towards the back seat before she could lose her nerve.

  “Move to the back. Now.”

  She coughed and covered her nose with the collar of her shirt as he moved past her to get into the back seat. She fought back a gag as he finally settled, and again pleaded, “Please take whatever you want. I ain’t got much, but you can have it.”

  “Do you have any rope, or fishing line?”

  His wide eyes darted around him as he stuttered, “Yeah, in the glove box. Over there.” He pointed to the front of the van.

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed, and she felt behind her for the glove box clasp. She wasn’t about to turn her back on him. He was a tricky one, this old man. Like she would fall for that. She felt her way around the edges of the glove box and found the handle. She pulled it open and half turned to look inside. There was a small spool of rope, just like he said.

  “Give me your pocket knife. I know you have one, everyone has one. And give me your gun, too.”

  “What gun? You can have my knife, here,” he said as he awkwardly dug into his pocket and held up the closed knife with trembling hands.

  Her face flushed with anger, “The gun at your back, I saw it earlier. Don’t mess with me.”

  “I swear I don’t have a gun, what are you talking about?”

  “Behind you, I saw it when you walked into the store earlier. It’s at your back, tucked into your waistband. Turn around!” It was all taking too long. She didn’t care if she was caught, but she needed to make sure he paid for what he did first.

  He turned and lifted up the back of his shirt to reveal... a rag. A formerly white rag, stained tan over the years and spotted with oil. Not a gun. Rebecca stared at the rag for a minute before pulling it from his waist and tossing it to the floor of the van. Whatever, so it wasn’t a gun. That didn’t mean he hadn’t killed Jon and Oliver. He just hadn’t used a gun. She had figured that much, anyway.

  She set her gun down beside her and cut off a piece of rope, “Tie up your feet. Now.”

  His hands shook as he fumbled with the rope. Tears streamed down his face, cutting a river through the dust and dirt caked there. She cut off another piece and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm.

  She glanced out of the window. Another car had pulled up to the gas pumps, a blue Toyota. A short, chubby woman wearing a skirt suit stepped out and glanced around, as all women should do when alone in a dark place, before she slid her credit card into the machine. Rebecca stopped what she was doing, she didn’t want any movement to catch the woman’s eye. But of course they weren’t visible. The woman was standing at the pumps, in the spotlight of a flickering yellow bulb. Rebecca and the man were in a dark van, in a darker corner of the parking lot.

  He finally finished tying his feet together and she gave it a tug, satisfied it would hold.

  “Hold out your arms”

  “Please, please don’t hurt me. I got a wife at home, and I got three kids. The youngest just started walking... please...”

  “Shut up,” She said as she tied his hands together with the piece of rope. Girl Scout, she was not, but she only needed him to lay still for a few minutes at least. Once she started, anyway.

  “Now lay down on the seat,” she said as she tucked her gun back into her waistband and reached for the can of gasoline. She stared at it in her hands, took a deep breath, and moved closer to him.

  He looked from the gasoline to her, then back again to the gasoline. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t do nothing to…”

  “Shut. Up,” she whispered, stuffing the oily rag into his mouth.

  Rebecca hefted the gasoline can onto her lap and popped the pour spout open. The heavy can was full, and it didn’t take much effort to spill some out onto his legs. It became a little lighter as she moved up his body, paying special attention to his chest. She figured that part would need more... since there was more body there to get rid of. She had never thought about it before, how much gasoline it would take to keep a body burning.

  Reaching his head, she stopped and looked at him. His wide brown eyes pleaded with her and a whine escaped as he tried to cry out around the rag in his mouth. His body bucked on the seat. The old van reeked of gasoline and urine, both burning her eyes. Hurrying, she continued to pour the gasoline over his neck, then his arms, leaning on his chest to reach higher. There was still quite a bit left in the can, so she nestled it between his waist and the seat. She hoped it would continue the job from there. When she pulled away from him, her left arm was wet. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the unmistakable scent of gasoline. Rebecca wiped at her arm with her hand and reminded herself to clean it better once she was home.

  She retrieved the green lighter from the floorboards and flicked the small wheel. A bright orange flame danced in the dark backseat of the rickety white van. The man squirmed, and a muffled shout squeezed past the bits of rag.

  “This is for Oliver and Jon, you sick bastard.”

  Rebecca touched the lighter to the edge of the oil rag hanging from his mouth and held it there as the flame crawled up the dirty cotton toward his face. His shrieks became louder, still muffled around the rag. She opened the sliding door of the van and put one leg out, hoping for a quick getaway. With the other, she steadied herself in her crouched position and leaned towards the man’s pant legs with the lighter. The flame moved much quicker across his soaked jeans. So quick, she wasn’t able to jump back in time as it rushed down his legs as it followed the trail of gasoline she had poured there. She was still leaning on the edge of the seat when the flame whooshed past, sending a searing pain through her left arm. She bit her lip and jumped from the van. Shoving the sliding door closed, not caring about the sound it made, she crouch-ran back to her car, holding her burned arm close to her chest.

  Chest heaving as if she had run a marathon, Rebecca gasped for air. She was finally able to get the key into the ignition on the third try, around shaking hands and a pounding heart. The parking lot was empty. The blue Toyota had left, and she could see the clerk through the window of the store reading a magazine, oblivious to what was going on just a few feet away. She slammed the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking spot. The van beside her was filling up with bright orange and yellow flickers of light.

  It was quite beautiful, the fire. It was mesmerizing, the way it danced and lit up the dark corner of the parking lot, everything a soft orange glow. But she didn’t dare look at it in the rear-view mirror. She forced herself to keep her eyes forward, away from the fire, the mirror, and the possibility of seeing Oliver sitting there behind her again. He would be scared; he wouldn’t recognize the person she had become. She didn’t recognize herself anymore.

  A few miles later, she forced herself to slow down to the speed limit. Her heart raced when she saw flashing lights coming towards her on the highway. She gripped the steering wheel and kept her eyes forward as the police cruiser raced by her. Another wasn’t far behind, and after that, a fire engine. She hoped they would be too late, that there wouldn’t be much left of the man who had killed her family. He had gotten exactly what he deserved.

  20

  James left Tom’s Pawn #2 on Downing Street exactly how he had gone in, with the dead fisherman’s watch on his arm and the same four blood-smudged one-hundred dollar bills in his wallet. Not that they hadn’t made him a good offer, they had. They had made a hell of an offer. But he kinda l
iked the watch, its black leather strap felt good on his wrist, smooth and sleek. His mama didn’t need the money that month anyway, it’s not like Martin was going to go around asking for it.

  James kicked himself for not taking the man’s credit cards before he threw the wallet into the water. There was probably a ton of credit on them. But, he reminded himself, credit cards are what got you in trouble. He was playing the long game. He needed to get enough to get his mama comfortable, then blow outta town. With that detective sniffing around, it was only a matter of time before they got wise to him. Shit, Detective Barnes would only need to visit Tommy once without James around to keep him in line, and he’d probably spill everything. Tommy was weak, and scared. James despised weakness but he made an exception for Tommy. Tommy paid the rent, bought most of their dinners, and didn’t ask too many questions. But he was scared and, much like a dog, a scared man was a dangerous man.

  James pulled up to the intersection of Wilkinson and Burbank, just four houses down from his mama’s place. There was a Crown Vic parked along the side of the street. Through his open window he could tell the engine was off, but there was someone sitting in the driver’s seat. The light turned green and James pulled forward, slower than he needed to, trying to get a glimpse of the driver as he passed the car. Cops were a rare sight in the Third. Most in the city had given up on them years ago, and that was all right with everyone who lived there. They had their own kind of justice, a street justice, and had always handled their own without any kind of outside help. Not that they never saw the red and blue lights, every now and then a rookie would roll in hoping to “clean up” their part of town. But they were met with a wall of silence, and witnesses always seemed to be out of town.

  Detective Barnes waved to James as he came into sight. He was smiling that jackass confident smile of someone who knows they got you by the balls. James could play that game, too. He smiled and waved back, bringing the van to a stop and leaning over the passenger seat like he had all the time in the world.

  “How’s it going officer? Burnes, is it?”

  Barnes shook his head, “Oh I’m good, just relaxing here for a minute. What’re you up to? Coming to see your mama?”

  James thought that was odd, why would the cops care about his mama?

  “Yep, I gotta get, she’s waiting on me.”

  “See you later, James,” Detective Barnes said, not smiling this time.

  James waved again as he pulled away, the fake smile on his face fading as he rolled out of sight. Goddamn nosy ass pigs. Well, as long as they were on his mama’s street and not with Tommy, he was okay for now. Let him sit out there jacking off while he visited his mama. There wasn’t anything illegal about visiting your mama on a Saturday afternoon.

  He knocked on the door as he opened it. “Knock knock! It’s me! Where are you?” He learned a long time ago to announce his presence; his mama liked to walk around in her drawers on laundry day and you never knew what day was laundry day.

  “Hey baby! I’m back here! Give me a minute, I’ll be right up,” she called out from the back of the house.

  James took a seat on the worn recliner; the same one his dad was sitting in the day he shot him. It had been reupholstered, of course, blood was hard to get out of fabric even if you treated it right away. Which they hadn’t. The police had been there all evening asking their questions and taking pictures. It would have looked bad if his mama had stopped to spray 409 on the chair.

  The living room was almost exactly how it had been all of James’ life. His mama kept it decorated in broke-ass nouveau. An old entertainment center was the centerpiece, its drooping shelves covered in garage sale trinkets, yellowed school pictures of James, and an autographed replica of a race car. James couldn’t identify which driver it was for; he was never a fan of NASCAR. It didn’t make sense to him, to watch grown men drive in circles for hours. But his dad loved it and his mama had given him that signed car as a gift the Christmas before he died. His dad, of course, didn’t care and complained about how much it probably cost, but it was one of the only things of his dad’s that his mama had kept out on display. The TV was one James had given her last year. He found it in the back of someone’s truck. It was a delivery truck parked behind the local Walmart, and he may or may not have waited for the driver to go inside before ‘finding’ a few TVs in the back. But it was real nice, a fifty-five incher. No cracks across that glass.

  An old couch sat against the far wall, a worn afghan covering most of it. You could see hints of the brown and maroon floral design on the couch through the holes in the blanket. In front of the couch was a coffee table that you were never allowed to put your feet on. White doilies sat underneath candy dishes, inviting anyone to take a snack and stay a while. James leaned over to snag a mint from the candy dish as his mama walked into the room.

  “Hey baby! Come hug my neck.”

  He popped the mint in his mouth and stood up to hug her, “Hey mama, you doing ok?” He tilted his head towards the back of the house.

  “Oh yeah, just got a bit of a backup. The internets say I need to eat more fiber but that stuff is gross. You either mix it in some water and it’s nasty, or you eat foods with a lotta fiber in it and they’re nasty. Tastes like you’re eatin’ a handful of sand, if you ask me. I’ll just take a little longer on the toilet, is all. But you didn’t come here to hear about your mama’s bowels. You hungry?”

  “I’m really not, mama. And hey, I got you something.” He changed the subject before she insisted on cooking for him. His stomach still remembered the last thing she’d made for him. That rotten mayo had messed him up for a while. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash.

  “What is this, baby? I can’t take your money, you work too hard for it. And besides, I told you I was fine.” She pushed the money back towards him.

  He held up his hands and stepped back. “Nope, I told you I was on to something good. This ain’t nothing, mama. Really, I want you to have it. It would hurt my feelings if you didn’t take it.”

  She counted the money in her hands before shoving it into her apron pocket. “This is great, baby. Thank you. Martin’s mama took over his rent houses and now she thinks she’s better than everybody. He’s not even cold in his grave, and the damn bitch has gone and gotten all high-falootin’. But this’ll shut her up for a while. I told her, I said, ‘Maryanne now you know we been friends for a long time, how you gonna get hard with me on this?’, but she don’t care none. She kicked that girl of his out of his house and guess what... she’s rentin’ that one out too! And chargin’ damn near an arm and a leg, yeah she done lost her mind but this’ll shut her up for a little bit.” She patted the apron pocket.

  “What happened to your disability check?”

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and suddenly found the bottom of the coffee table extremely interesting. “Well, I told you about the bingo hall?” Sandra looked up at her son. “Joyce and I went down there last week, back when we heard Martin had died, and played the casino games in the back. I didn’t think I had to pay my rent, since he was dead and all... how was I supposed to know Maryanne was gonna come knockin’? But Joyce heard from Yolanda who heard from Yvette that this one machine was payin’ out real good so I played it all day and I was real far ahead but then I started losin’ and, well, you know how it goes. Joyce won a hundred fifty on it, but that was as good as we did.”

  James sighed. Just when he thought he was catching her up, she did something to get behind again.

  “It’s all right, mama. I got you. When do you need the rest of it?”

  She moved to sit down at the kitchen table. “Next-next Monday.” She looked down at her hands and bit at the edges of a hangnail on her thumb.

  James went over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mama, look at me. Mama, hey.” He lifted her chin. “Don’t you worry, okay? You can count on me.” He leaned down and hugged her. “I got this, I’ll call you in a few, ok?”

 
He waved to Detective Barnes as he drove past on his way back home, though the pig acted like he didn’t see him. Hell, James preferred it that way anyway. He should just take care of the detective, but that for sure would rain down a whole mess of attention he definitely didn’t need. He didn’t want anyone breathing down his neck while he tried to get the rest of his mama’s rent money.

  21

  Even in between jobs, Fridays were still James’ favorite day of the week. It was payday for the rest of the world... which meant payday for James. He just had to work a little differently to get his.

  He and Tommy sat in the van watching blue collars come and go from Hurricane’s Pub on Harborside Blvd. Galveston was not a beautiful island that day, the setting sun hid behind a gray wall and rain was pouring down in thick sheets. Rain was good if you were trying not to get a lot of attention. Nobody would notice a van with the engine on in the corner of a parking lot if they were running with their hoodie up and their head down. No one would later be able to describe you to an officer if they were hiding behind their umbrella. They had been there for about an hour, and not one of those coverall wearing jerks had so much as nodded in their direction. It was a busy day, all the rainy ones were. Shit, rain on a payday meant all the construction workers sent home on rain-outs went straight to the Pub where they started drinking at noon and didn’t stop until the place closed down around them.

  James leaned back in the driver’s seat, arm casually draped on the center console. He could sit there for hours, watching people and listening to the rain hit the roof of the van. Tommy, on the other hand, couldn’t sit still to save his life. That man was born twitching and hadn’t stopped since. He was one of those nervous motherfuckers who always looked guilty of something. That didn’t really help out James at the moment, considering they were guilty of a lot of things. He knew it was just a matter of time before Tommy lost his shit and went to the police, or they came to him. But he would have to deal with that later, when he wasn’t worried about paying his mama’s rent.