TO THE DEVIL, MY REGARDS
a novella by
Victor Gischler & Anthony Neil Smith
2nd Edition Copyright 2011 Victor Gischler & Anthony Neil Smith
Originally serialized in Blue Murder Magazine and published by Coffee Cup Press
Cover design by Ben Springer (twitter.com/pokerben)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ONE
The cops had pulled me in many times before, but I always talked myself out of jail. Either the facts had been in my favor or I spun them so they looked that way. But this time—4 AM on Sunday morning, a dim interrogation room at the police station in Mobile, Alabama—it didn’t look good for me. Pretty damn scary, really.
“Look at me, DelPresto,” Detective Forrest said for probably the thousandth time since he’d dragged me in three hours earlier. He had is sleeves rolled up too tight, and his dark slick hair kept falling over his eyes. “You’ve told me a different story every time.”
“It happened different every time,” I said.
“That’s stupid. Here’s what we’ve got. Airtight, absolute. Witnesses saw you strike her. My partner and I saw you stab her. We took a photo before taking your hand off the knife.”
The partner, Detective Nelson, a guy who looked like part of the wall if you didn’t focus right, tossed a Polaroid across the table. The only bright color in the room was the flash illuminating the blood on the girl, the knife, my hands, my arm. Rachel. Call me nuts, but I thought I was really falling in love with this girl. But this late last night I found her with a knife in her chest. These guys had it all wrong. I’d been set up.
Forrest kept going. “And you were saying, ‘It’s me. My fault. I killed her. I did it.’ We’ve got that on a squad car video. None of your private-dick-get-out-of-jail-free cards tonight.”
“I didn’t do this. It’s a mistake.” But it was my fault, at least in my own mind. It was my job that got her killed. I had been hired to spy on her mother. When I saw Rachel lifeless in the yard, I knew that had she not met me, she might still be alive.
“Eye-fucking-witnesses, DelPresto!”
I rolled my head, popped my neck. My attorney wasn’t home when I called. His wife was fuming, said she’d try to page him. Problem was, I know he didn’t take his pager when he was over at his secretary’s place, riding her like a pony. She was twenty years older than him with a voice like Marge Simpson, but the woman had a body and could teach classes on sucking cock. I know—I had a threesome with her and the attorney once. Satisfied all my Susan Sarandon fantasies. So my lawyer was with her, and I’d never even learned the woman’s last name. It was a least an overnight stay for me, then.
“Can you, um, please?” I lifted my shackled wrist until the chain on the D-ring jerked it back. “It’s a little over the top, even for you.”
The granite partner Nelson took a couple sheets of paper from a manila file folder, placed them on the table with a pen and slid them over. “The first one says you waive your right to an attorney. The second is blank for your statement. Sign them so we can go home. I’ve got church in five hours.”
We’d been through the paper routine twice earlier. I said no the first time, and I said it again the second time. I guess third’s the charm.
Forrest twisted the blinds closed. He nodded at the two-way mirror, and I thought I heard a tap. Then he looked at Nelson and winked. Nelson stood—seven feet at least, I just know it—and moved behind me. He crouched by the chair and slid his hand up and down my ribs.
“You a lefty?” he said.
“What?”
“Do you write with your left hand or your right?”
“Right,” I said. The shackled one.
“Let the hand go,” Nelson said, and Forrest unlocked the cuff. I was about to reach for my sore wrist when Nelson’s fingers moved to my lower back, over a love handle, and squeezed the shit out of my side. My kidney! This is the pain they warn you about in military training, the kind which makes a soldier give a wounded enemy a last drink of water. I’d only seen it in movies, but now I was feeling it full-tilt.
Nelson talked low and slow while I grunted and chattered my teeth. “Mr. PI DelPresto, sir, I’ve had enough of your wild explanations for a very simple situation. You killed that girl. I don’t know why. But you’re going to tell me, or you’re going to lose this vital organ. I know you’ve got a backup, but I don’t think you’re the type of man that likes having only one option to lean on. Do we understand each other?”
“Police—bru—tality!” I said through a clenched jaw.
“No, this isn’t that. This is persuasion, you smug degenerate cat fucker. Excuse my language. Bless me, Lord.”
I was a second from giving up the whole story plus the truth behind every lie I’d told since birth when the interrogation room door opened, letting in a shaft of light until the Fat Hump Captain strolled in and ruined my morning. This guy was in the two-ninety range, shaped like an egg or a ham, depending on your point of view. I’d dealt with him before when he was a lieutenant, but could never remember the guy’s name. He was a pitiful cop, but a good administrator. I didn’t expect to see him waltz into the middle of my questioning, though.
Nelson loosened his grip on my side but stayed crouched until Captain Hump motioned for him to get away. The tall detective walked around the table, stood behind the Hump, and towered like a beanstalk in silence, his light brown skin contrasting the dark shadows caught by the angles of his face.
“Mr. DelPresto, I’m terribly sorry for your inconvenience,” the Captain said.
“No, Cap, what’re you doing?” Forrest whined. It was beautiful.
“We’ve made a mistake, I’m afraid. We’ll have to let him go.”
Forrest was livid, in the Captain’s face with that whine again. “Eyewitnesses, at least four. Pictures, video!”
The Captain drew back, his eyebrows dancing nervously. “Did you actually see him kill her?”
“Yes, his hand was on the knife. I saw it and Nelson did, too.”
“Maybe it was. But kill her? Was she already dead? It’s flimsy, Forrest. Sorry.”
Even I was shocked. They had me literally red-handed, and I get sprung without even one fancy lawyer threat? This was fishy, and more “old tuna in the heat” fishy instead of “damn good fishsticks” fishy. The Captain was no friend of mine. Not many cops were anymore, being that I’d stepped over too many lines the last two years. My reputation was shot.
Forrest was like a baseball manager on an umpire: “There’s no way we can let him go! This is solid as the fucking moon! Solid as my wife’s teeth!”
Nelson shrugged and left the room. The Captain looked past Forrest and raised his hand, pointed at me. “Free to go.”
I was out of there and walking the streets before Forrest could hunt me down and exact vengeance the old-fashioned way—a bullet in the back. Outside the station, a cool breeze made me forget it was the middle of August. I began the five mile hike back to my apartment. Not that it would make me feel better. A cramped one-bedroom that I hadn’t cleaned in over a year. When things went bad for me, whatever habits I might have had went bad, too. I’m sure there’s food in the fridge from winter. I lost all my silverware a piece at a time. When the smell of the sheets made me puke, I’d throw the old ones away, go to the store for some new ones, repeat.
The cops kept my gun, a 9mm Browning I’d taken off a client once for payment since he wouldn
’t cough up cash, because my license had expired. So I was defenseless, alone, hardly able to stand, dried blood on my shirt and sports jacket, stumbling towards an unwelcome home, running the whole thing that got me here through my head again.
It was bad that Rachel was only seventeen. I didn’t know that until only a few hours before her death. Before, she’d played herself up to be a jaded twenty-five, and I fell for it, even though I probably knew in my head all along. As if my life hadn’t been bad enough, she took what was left—the only reason I could wake up and be glad I did, the thing that had me grabbing for the coffee pot before the rum most days—and made it for shit.
Damn, I loved the way she made me feel.
But instead of recalling those fuzzy emotions, I should have been paying attention to the present moment. To the three guys tailing me.
TWO
Funny thing about those three guys on my tail. They were all following me separately, and each seemed to be unaware of the others. I paced worried circles around my apartment, returned to the crack in the drapes once in a while to see if they were still standing down there. Two sat on opposite ends of the corner bench at the bus stop. The other stood half a block down at the newsstand, pretending to flip through a magazine, but he’d crane his neck around every few seconds, watching the entrance to my building.
The guy with the magazine was a bit older, maybe forty-five, mostly bald, a little sad gut hanging over his belt and a J. Crew wardrobe, khakis and a blue blazer. The two on the bench were something else. The kid was maybe eighteen or nineteen. He wore torn jeans, leather jacket with studs up and down the sleeves, bug hoop earring in his nose. His dirty blond hair fell past his collar. The guy at the other end of the bench was the only one I was really worried about.
His face looked sharp and hard, like it had been chiseled from pale rock. He wore an expensive cut, black suit, shiny Italian shoes. The slight bulge in his jacket meant trouble. He was dressed too nice to be a cop or a bill collector. Somebody’s hired muscle.
I showered quickly, changed into my other suit, the gray one which looked liked I’d slept in it no matter what they attempted at the dry-cleaners. As I cinched up my tie, I drifted back to the window. I was hoping at least one or two of them would get bored and go home. No dice. They all waited like park statues. Like Cathedral gargoyles.
I almost grabbed my shoulder holster but remembered I had nothing to put in it.
I was dog tired but didn’t think I could get any rest with the goon squad waiting downstairs. This situation had to be dealt with pronto.
The bus schedule was old, yellow at the edges and held to the fridge by a Pizza Hut magnet. I took it down, made some calculations. The Number 2 would be along in six minutes.
I timed it just right. The bus pulled up just as I came out of my building and blocked the view off the two guys on the bench. I quick-stepped it past the newsstand and khaki boy fell into step behind me. I turned the corner while I still had the bus blocking the others.
Okay. Now I only had one to deal with.
I ducked into Chuck’s Chuck Wagon, a greasy spoon with retro prices and a view of the pedestrian traffic. I found a booth in the back. Khaki boy came in five seconds later and sat at the counter. He was making a world-class effort to look casual, not glance at me. He failed miserably, but I paid all my attention to the placemat-menu.
A waitress who looked like she’d fallen into a vat of Maybelline floated over like an iceberg. I told her to bring me coffee while I browsed the menu. She snapped her gum at me and left.
The guy behind the counter brought tea and toast for Khaki boy.
Then Tipper Jenkins shuffled into the joint. I tried to shrink down behind my coffee cup, but he spotted me and smiled his way toward my booth. They called him Tipper because he was always trying to sell tips. Sometimes it was a horse. Sometimes a fixed fight. I suppose if he had some inside mob connections, it would have been a pretty good racket, but Tippers sources were . . . uh . . . questionable.
“Delly-De-DelPresto, what’s up up up, my main man?” Tipper’s hands twitched in front of him like he was knitting an invisible scarf. “Got some tips, man. Cheap. Del-a-delly-Dell-boy, whatcha say, may m-m-main man?”
“Save it, Tipper. Not today.”
“Heard you h-had some bad l-luck there, my man. Ran afoul of Johnny Law.” Tipper shuffled his feet, blinked three times, stuck his tongue out.
“Par for the course, Tipper.”
“I got scores,” said Tipper. “B-b-b-baseball scores. Clean up. Tomorrow’s scores today all from the Tip-m-man.”
“I said no.”
“T-ten bucks.” Another little dance. Tipper had his church clothes on today, army surplus jacket, cowboy boots and a Harley Davidson T-shirt. He’d shaved one half of his face okay, but the other half was still covered with five-day growth. “Ten bucks for the scores, my m-man. Bet it big with Jig and clean up.”
“They sent Jig Martins up three years ago for bookmaking, Tipper.”
He didn’t seem to hear. “Ten bucks.”
“No.”
“F-five bucks. B-best deal in town. Get down-in town, don’t make a man frown. Five bucks and an egg-salad sandwich.”
“Beat it, Tipper.”
Tipper’s spastic dance picked up speed, his arms got into it more like he was swatting at flies. Big ones.
“F-five bucks and an egg-salad s-s-sandwich. Cubs and Braves, my man, Cubs and Braves.”
I wasn’t the kind of guy to embarrass easy, but I wasn’t much in a mood right now to be the center of attention. Heads turned to catch the show. Except khaki boy. He was still maintaining his composure even though it was obvious he wanted to see what the hell was going on.
“Will you just sit down,” I told Tipper. “I’ll buy you an egg-salad sandwich if you shut up.”
“Five b-bucks.”
“No money, just grub.”
He sat.
The waitress came back with the coffeepot and filled my cup. She cocked a suspicious eye at Tipper. “What did I tell you about coming in here?”
“S-s-sorry, Millie.”
“I’m buying him a sandwich,” I said, and she looked at me like I’d just offered to buy a tuxedo for a dog.
She shrugged. “It’s your money.”
I ordered five eggs, toast, grits, bacon and hash browns. A light meal for the man on the go. Tipper ordered an egg-salad sandwich on white toast with the crusts cut off, tomato on half and Mayo on the outside of the bread. Millie didn’t say a damn word, just wrote the order in her little book. God bless the woman.
Tipper stuck a pencil in his ear eraser first. Then he stuck a wad of tin foil on the point of the pencil.
“I don’t want the score, Tipper. Just enjoy your sandwich.”
“You p-paid. You g-g-get the scores. That’s how it works, my man.”
He tuned in the scores by sticking his fingers up his nose and wiggling them around until he had the right “station.” His eyes rolled back in his head. “huminahuminahumina.”
“Stop it, Tipper.”
He stopped. “Cubs three, Atlanta seven. You lay that bet, my m-man and you’ll clean up.”
“Sure, Tipper. Thanks.”
They food arrived. We ate.
I wanted to see if khaki boy had the patience for me to eat or if he’d get bored and split. He stuck good, didn’t give up. He had three cups of tea while I shoveled food. I told Tipper thanks for the scores, dropped enough money to cover tab and tip and climbed out of the booth. As I approached khaki boy, he made a point of looking in the other direction. I wasn’t willing to let him off the hook this time. I hopped aboard the stool next to his.
“Can I help you, sir?” He tried to play it off, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“I should ask you that,” I said. “Maybe you’ll explain why you’ve been following me.”
“You’re Z. Z. DelPresto, aren’t you?”
“Ever since I was a kid.”
“I’m R
obert Woolf,” he said. “I’m Rachel’s father.”
When he said her name, I felt it in my gut, up my spine. The blood drained from my face, and suddenly I was there again, standing over seventeen-year-old Rachel’s naked and abused body. Blood all over her. All over me. I remember how her eyes looked, open wide, searching for nothing at all.
I tried to think what I could possibly say to Woolf. How to explain. How even to begin. I finally settled on the simplest thing. “I’m sorry, Mr. Woolf. So sorry.”
“Sorry?” His fist came around fast.
I was on the stool with a mouth full of apologies one second, then on the floor, wondering what time it was the next. I was more surprised than hurt. I sat there on the cold tile, looking up at the father of the woman I’d loved, and if he wanted to punch me again I’d let him. A beating couldn’t have hurt worse than what I already felt.
But he stood over me, his little suburban fists clenched with paternal outrage. “They said they let you go. I asked the police if you’d done it, killed her, and they said they had to let you go.”
“I didn’t do it.” My voice sounded small. I wouldn’t have even believed me.
“She was a child, DelPresto, a child.” It looked like he was going to tear up. “I thought, I don’t know, I’d follow you. See where you went. Maybe I could find out the truth.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said again. “That’s the truth.”
“I don’t know what that means anymore.” He put his face in his hands. This time hot tears rolled down his face, mixed with snot. He wiped the whole mess on his sleeve. Suddenly he looked up, realized the whole place was looking at him. He wiped his eyes again with his thumb, straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. He pointed at me and started to talk, but his voice caught. He left me with a hard look and walked out.
I paid for his tea.
*
Millie let me sit at the counter for a few minutes so I could get my ducks in a row. She smashed up some ice into a dishrag, and I held it to my lip where Woolf had taken a poke at me.
To the Devil, My Regards Page 1
