Television poker had educated me a bit. Some guys are so good, they’ve made it all but impossible. But Freddie loosened up with the vodka and, on a long stretch without good sleep, started to reveal a few things.
I watched close when it was just him and Snyder in the hand. When Freddie was strong, I realized he’d take a drag on his cigarette and hold the smoke in longer than normal, let it out slow as he stared at his opponent.
But when he was weak or bluffing, it was a quicker drag, and he’d put the cigarette down and sometimes tap on the stacks of money like he couldn’t wait to get it all in. With that information, the game turned. I got into both of their stacks. The ante was small—two hundred—but we were betting heavy.
At one point, Freddie took a piss and when he was gone, I told Snyder I thought I could beat him. I knew how he played. “Maybe get him drunk enough—”
“That’ll take all night. We need to end this,” Snyder said. “It’s not a game.”
“Just give it time. I think I can win it all back.”
“He’s just playing with you,” Snyder said. He turned, yelled, “C’mon, Freddie. What the hell are you doing, pissing or jacking off?”
Freddie returned and the game got more serious. I added another round of stacks out of the bag. I wanted Freddie to start thinking he could just walk away with all the money and owe nothing.
He won like fifty grand in the space of three hands. It was all piled up in neat stacks. I threw a couple hands. Let him get real cocky. But then I took some big hands, and he got angry.
Then, after losing another ten, he suddenly became highly agitated. “Fuck this. I gotta go,” he said, “I gotta get back. This is wasting my time.”
“You’re too wiped out to drive,” I said.
Snyder said he had to piss. He got up and headed off.
“Freddie, c’mon, man. One more hand,” I said. “Double or nothing for the thirty. Like the old days. Get this done. You know what? I don’t want you owing me. Hell, I’d rather you beat me out of all of it.”
“Nah, fuck this. I gotta go,” Freddie said. He started gathering up his lighter, cigarettes. He pulled one of the backpacks and started putting the money away. “Long damn drive. I need to be back.”
I knew Snyder was going to make a move, and I didn’t know how to stop that. He had circled and come behind Freddie, who had no idea what was happening. His eyes were on the money as he stuffed the pack, mumbling about the long drive, getting out of there.
5
A flood of thoughts tore through my mind, but I was frozen in place. The horror of what was about to happen mixed with what had happened to that drunk girl at a wild party, Snyder always the aggressive, violent type when he drank. And there he was with a rock in his hand, ready to crush Fast Freddie’s skull.
I was looking at Freddie, seeing Snyder behind him, but then I rose, shifting my eyes, and that made Freddie turn just as Snyder swung. Freddie tried to duck away, but the rock hit him on the side of the head.
Freddie went down.
“Fuck him,” Snyder said, tossing the rock aside. “Let’s do this.”
Freddie wasn’t totally out, but he was too dazed and drunk to offer much resistance. In the dim light of the lamp, I saw blood on the side of his head.
Snyder grabbed him, one arm around his neck, the other around his back and chest, and started dragging him to the cliff, yelling back at me, “Help me, damnit!”
He didn’t really need help, but he wanted me to be an equal partner in throwing Freddie to his death.
He shifted his arms to a chokehold, dragging Freddie to the edge of the cliff. Freddie was now completely choked out.
“Grab his legs,” Snyder yelled at me. “C’mon, let’s do this.”
That was his favorite phrase: C’mon, let’s do this.
Now I remembered. It was the same one he used with the girl. And it hit me that I remembered it from that night, not just from the video.
I’d done nothing to stop him then.
And now it was happening again.
“C’mon, let’s do this.”
“Wait,” I said, moving forward.
When I reached them, Snyder had Freddie ready to go over, waiting for me to participate.
“Grab his legs,” Snyder demanded.
I grabbed Freddie’s legs but pulled back, away from the cliff, saying, “We have the money and the video. We don’t have to do this. Let him go. He’ll wake up, we’ll be long gone, and it’ll be over.”
Snyder gave me a hard look. “Bullshit. He’ll come back one way or another. Let’s do this, goddamnit. I’m not leaving here with this bastard alive.”
“Man, we don’t have to do this.”
“You’re such a pussy.” Snyder tried to pull the unconscious Freddie away from me and hurl him off the cliff to the rocks below, but I pulled back.
Snyder, surprised, tried to regain control. He still had a linebacker’s physique and had me by twenty-five pounds, a couple inches taller. “What the hell? Fuck you, man.”
Then he let go of Freddie and came at me in a rage. Instead of meeting the onslaught head on, I did what any good tight end would do. I’d spent a substantial part of my football career learning how to reverse the momentum of would-be tacklers, using their force to spin and break in a downfield move. It gained yards. Sometimes touchdowns.
He slammed into my left shoulder and swung around to grab me. I spun with his charge, but then we both tripped over Freddie.
I went down near the edge of the cliff with Snyder falling on top of me, grabbing at me, but I leveraged him, allowing his own weight and momentum to carry him right on over.
For a split second, I could see his face as he frantically tried to grab at me to stop the fall, or bring me with him, but he missed and dropped into the dark.
I quickly scrambled to the edge and peered over in time to see Snyder in the moonlight as he bounced off the side of the cliff and then hit the rocks below with a sickening thud.
Snyder never screamed. Maybe didn’t have time. Now he lay wedged and broken between large rocks.
Behind me, I heard Freddie coughing and spitting. I turned. He was sitting up and cupping his head in his hands.
I saw the snub-nosed revolver in the dirt. I took it and put it in my pocket. “I’ll be right back,” I said.
I got my flashlight from my pack and went down along the cliff to where I could get down. I had to know if Snyder was alive or dead, though I didn’t see how he could have survived.
I worked my way carefully down the slope, bracing on trees and grabbing saplings.
Then I followed along the cliff base through the rocks, worried as I went about rattlesnakes, copperheads, and crannies I might get a foot wedged in.
I was breathing hard and my heart wouldn’t slow down. When I got to Snyder, flashed the light on his face, and saw all the blood and the wreckage, it confirmed to me he was dead even before I put two fingers on his carotid artery.
Then I went through his pockets and took his burner throwaway phone and car keys. I needed that other video.
I sat on a rock for a moment, rested, and stared at his battered body twisted into the rocks.
Freddie yelled down to me. “He dead?”
“Yeah, he’s about as dead as you can get.”
Finally, I left Snyder and worked back the way I’d come.
6
Freddie was sitting on the log by the rock with the money and the cards. He looked over at me, his face showing the stress and alcohol in the glow of the LED lamp.
“He was gonna throw me off,” Freddie said, as if that was unthinkable. As if what he was doing was perfectly rational, but killing him for it wasn’t.
I sat down. “Yeah, he was. How are you doing?”
“I don’t know. I got a headache, but I don’t think he busted my skull. It feels okay. Just hurts like hell.”
I checked it out with the flashlight. “You’ll most likely live. I don’t know if that’s a good
thing.”
“The chokehold was worse than the rock,” Freddie said. “My neck hurts.” He played with his Adam’s apple.
I sat down on a nearby rock. I told him everything. Right up to the fight and my change of mind. I didn’t apologize. I told him he was a first-class asshole and that I’d kill him the next time he threatened me and my family. “You need to go back to Vegas and take care of your business. I’ll give you Snyder’s money. He won’t be needing it.”
“I appreciate that,” Freddie said. He sat there fooling with the cards. Then he said, “You got my gun?”
“Yeah. You don’t need it. I should shoot you with it, but I’ll keep it as a souvenir.”
“Roger, I’m sorry, man. I got jammed up. I didn’t know what to do. I was gonna get the money back to you. I just had this pressing deal with these bastards. I got in over my head.”
I stuffed some stacks of money back in Snyder’s bag. I pushed it over to him. He pulled it. “How much is there?”
“Maybe thirty, thirty-five. That’s all you get. Work out whatever you can with the bookies.”
“I appreciate it. I’d be the one dead down there.”
“Freddie, take this and get the hell out of here. Don’t get stopped. Deal with your problem. I don’t want to see you for a long, long time.”
“What about him?”
“I’ll deal with it. Go.”
Freddie pulled out another cigarette, but I told him not to smoke it. “I got to clean up this place. Just go.”
“I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
Freddie started to leave but stopped and looked back at me. “Roger, you still want in with the Internet strip-poker deal, you let me know. Reese will know how you can contact me.”
Freddie never stopped being Fast Freddie. “Okay. Go.”
He nodded and left. I watched him until he disappeared in the pines.
It was a couple hours’ task to eradicate our presence at the cliffs the best I could, but eventually, I was satisfied. Snyder had done all the pouring of drinks, so I left the near-empty bottle and his cup.
I took my money and hiked off through the trees and down to the cars. The money, even going mostly downhill, was still heavy as hell, as was my mind. It was like carrying a dead body.
Dawn was fast approaching when I reached Snyder’s car. I got the smartphone from the glove box, then wiped things down. Not that it would matter. I left the keys in the car.
Mel, himself being a bit shady, wouldn’t make a public case about not getting his money back.
Before returning to the cabin, I replaced the money in my office safe two hours ahead of anyone showing up for work.
At the cabin, I destroyed the videos. I hoped that was the end.
It was two weeks before Paul Snyder’s body was found and the tragic accident went down in the books.
A month later, and a week before my divorce became final, I sent Paul Snyder’s obit to the girl he raped. Maybe it would do her good and maybe not. Maybe she never knew who it was.
When I think of the terrible things that can happen to young girls drinking heavy at parties, it makes me a little nuts. My daughters are only a few years away. I’m sure they’re going to get a few serious talks between now and then.
KILLING HARRY
* * *
1
She sat on a bench at the rest stop with her head cupped in her hands, as if crying. She had a backpack next to her on the bench. She wore shorts, a blue blouse, and blue sneakers, and she was very thin. The woman projected agony, pain, her one hand shook. She reminded me of a wounded bird.
I didn’t see where her car was or that she was with anyone. There were only two cars at the rest stop, one with a family and a dog, the other an older man who’d just come in.
It was late afternoon. I’d been there about two hours working on some photos in my motor home. Taking short walks, returning to my work.
Seeing this woman, her demeanor so perfect for a photo, I took a few shots with my telephoto lens. The ones I surreptitiously snapped of her were painfully good. A woman in the throes of some horrible sadness—I couldn’t ignore the power of that pain. I fell in love with the photos and had to meet the woman.
I’m a great fan and disciple of street photography and shoot much in black and white. I am also a perennial student of men like the great Henri Cartier-Bresson and his concept of “the decisive moment.”
In fact, the idea of that “decisive moment” is what I’m all about, artistically and maybe in my life in general.
Since I first noticed her, the cars that were there had left and were replaced by three new arrivals.
Within fifteen minutes, they were gone. She was obviously alone and apparently without transportation at this not very busy rest stop back off the 395 in the eastern Sierras.
I left my motor home and headed over to where she sat in the part of the rest stop that was a small park and dog walk.
I was hesitant to disturb the woman yet couldn’t restrain myself. There was just something so gut wrenching about the way she sat, the forlornness of her. She was a French painting, a great photo, a symbol of the harshness of life.
I went cautiously up to within five yards of her and said quietly, “Miss, you okay? Is there something I can do?”
She turned her face up at me. She had a devastating shallowness to her otherwise attractive face, a pale, deathly gaunt, sunken-cheek look. The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties.
I felt there was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t make any connection.
“I’m okay. Thank you, but please leave me alone,” she said in a strained voice. Her gaze lingered on me a moment. She had obviously been crying and was in no mood to talk about her problems with a complete stranger.
In my view, people are either very cautious or naively open. I’m something of a student of human behavior, and that adds to my photography skills.
Not yet disappointed, and convinced she needed help, I temporarily returned to my small Winnebago parked in the nearly empty truck area, my home for the last couple of years.
Inside, I made a tuna sandwich on whole wheat with mayo and a slice of tomato. I’m a health freak up to a point, but I make an exception when it comes to mayonnaise.
When I finished eating, all the time watching her through the windshield, I now watched her get to her feet and walk around with a slight forward tilt, her arms around her middle as she moved like she was having serious stomach pains. She could as easily have been a devastated woman in some war zone.
I took a couple more shots. No true street photographer will admit it, but we look for misery, poverty, and suffering. They make the most iconic and poignant shots, with the possible exception of major historical moments. I love Civil War photographer Mathew Brady. He had a special eye for the historic moments.
But in the end, I’m admittedly a misery artist. A true street photog. And right now, I was looking at pain and suffering in the extreme.
I stared at her for a time, a little mesmerized. A woman in bad trouble, alone at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. Not a good situation. She was an easy target for some predator.
Glancing at her from time to time, again I checked the photos I’d just taken. My philosophy is that one must show truth. Suffering really, if unfortunately, is the gold standard of truth. No way around that. Suffering is truth stripped of all the phony wrappings used to hide it.
Then I checked my map. I don’t use the GPS as much as I used to. I like to look at real maps, memorize main highways, then off roads to locations where I might want to shoot pictures. I’m careful about my processes. I like to stay close to form and function, not live on a computer like so many people. I’ll certainly Google things from time to time, but I’m careful not to overindulge. I believe in the immediacy of existence, the revelation of that illusive “decisive moment.”
When I looked out again, the rest stop had become populated with two cars and two big rigs off in th
e truck area. Otherwise, it was pretty empty. She was still there.
I decided to take one more walk around the grounds. Maybe ask her again if she needed something. Increase her comfort level. I felt a connection. She saw me a few times, she would relax more, accept that I’m no danger. Just somebody who wants to lend her a hand.
After a stop in the restroom, and then going around the opposite side, I returned to the area where I’d last seen her.
She was doubled over, sitting now on the ground against a tree in the shade. If ever I saw agony, I was looking at it. It had a terrible perfection.
This time, I approached with more assertiveness. “Excuse me, but if there’s something wrong, let me help, maybe call somebody.”
“I’m okay.” She looked at me a moment.
It was obvious she did want help but didn’t know how to ask. I could see that clearly in her eyes, a nearly frantic kind of desperation you can’t walk away from.
I said, “I don’t want to be haunted by what might happen to a woman who’s obviously in a lot of pain,” I said, giving her an empathetic smile. “I’m kinda obsessive about that sort of thing.”
She didn’t quickly tell me to go like she did before, so I sat down on the grass, put my arms around my knees, and waited. I had to know. It was like looking at this dark, beautiful mystery.
After a time, she uncurled, leaned back against the tree, and said, “There’s nothing you can do for me. I’m okay.”
“I’ve seen people who are okay and, believe me, you aren’t one of them.” I said it softly.
She studied me. Though gaunt and obviously sick, she still had an extraordinarily expressive face. It was as poetically a face as anything I’d seen in a long while, and I’ve seen a lot of expressive pain and misery.
Finally, she said, “Maybe you can help me, but I have to be alone for a little while to think through something. Okay?”
“I’m parked right over there in that small motor home. You need something, don’t hesitate.”
The Murder Option Page 6
