Centuries of June

by Keith Donohue

  “Bun-ny,” her husband called from the foyer. No doubt he saw the man’s hat on the sideboard, for he did not call again and did not immediately approach the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway. There was no time to think. Like a fool, Phil was trying to get dressed. His tie was already roped around his neck. Ripping the sheet from the bed, Bunny wound it around her naked body and then picked up the gat. As Jerry burst into the room, she let him have it, firing aimlessly, the bullet catching him in the right thigh.

  He squealed like a schoolgirl at the pain and then clutched at the red carnation blossoming on his seersucker trousers. It never happened like that in the movies. The stiffs usually fell after the first shot—blam—and they were dead, but he was hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean. “What, are you crazy? What are you doing, Bunny?”

  She lifted the piece and fired again, this time shattering the lamp on the bureau.

  “Bun-Bun, stop. It’s me, Jerry. Stop what you’re doing. Stop shooting.” Jerry sensed the presence of another person in the room and saw the man in trousers and necktie, but no shirt, at the foot of the bed. The sheet was slipping from his wife’s shoulders. “Phil? Phil Ketchum?”

  Phil grinned and waved meekly.

  “Oh jeez,” Jerry said. “I only came home because I forgot my wallet. Oh jeez. Bunny, what have you done?”

  The shock had worn off, and she found she could now aim straight and true, so she squeezed the trigger and put the third bullet in his chest. Jerry bounced off the edge of the bed before hitting the floor like a sack of potatoes, just like in the movies.

  After the noise from the gunshots, the shouting voice, the bodies in motion, after the chaos subsided, they stood quite still, afraid of what might happen next. The droning fan swept back and forth, but the rest of the world went mute for a few seconds, allowing them to catch their hearts from beating through their ribs, to slow the pulse, to steady the heavy breathing. A weak moan floated from the floor.

  “Shit,” Bunny said. From her side of the bed, she marched round, past the stunned boyfriend, and stopped directly above the victim. She waved the gun at Phil. “See if he’s dead.”

  “Do I have to? I don’t want to touch him.”

  “For cripes’ sake, Phil, do I have to do everything myself?”

  Since he had only managed to find one shoe, he limped over to the body, which was arranged awkwardly, facedown and partially under the bed. Phil tugged the corpse and rolled him over. A bright red stain seeped through his shirt, and a trickle of blood ran from his mouth. His eyes were open, staring accusingly, but no breath passed his lips and there was no pulse at the carotid artery. He was quite deceased.

  “Blood is a dead giveaway,” the old man said. “Reminds me of a certain someone.”

  I reached back to the site of the hole in my head, but there was no blood. From the living room, the cat let loose a plaintive meow. It was only a matter of time before he would come seek me out. I checked my watch, but the hands had not moved.

  They wrapped him up like a mummy in a blanket, got dressed, and went to the kitchen to strategize. Phil’s hands shook like a dope fiend’s when he tried to light a pair of cigarettes. Bunny put on the percolator and grabbed some eggs from the icebox. “Hungry?”

  “I couldn’t eat a thing,” he said.

  “Scrambled okay? I’m famished.”

  “Bunny, what are we going to do with the body?”

  Whipping the eggs with a fork, she gathered her thoughts, and as the froth sizzled in the skillet, Bunny cooked up a plan. In the storage locker in the building’s basement, she had a trunk big enough, she thought, to hold the body, though they’d have to fold Jerry in half. Phil would have to borrow a car, and they could take the trunk to the river or better yet some deeper water, and weighed down with stones, sink it to the bottom. Jerry had run off, she would say. Probably found another woman. They’d take a few changes of his clothes, empty out a bank account, make it look like he wanted to disappear. Husbands do that all the time.

  “But wouldn’t it be easier,” Phil argued, “to tell the police that you were asleep and you thought he was an intruder who broke into the house, and you shot him by mistake?”

  “Shot him three times by mistake? My own husband, I wouldn’t recognize?”

  In the end, she beat him down, if not by superior logic, then by the sheer absurdity of the situation and her willingness to make decisions.

  “I can drag that trunk up from the basement,” he said. “But how can I carry the body down?”

  “Eat your eggs.” She dropped the plate before him. “I’ll ask that boy Woody to help you.”

  Phil started shoveling food into his mouth, wondering the while how well she knew Woody Pfahl.

  By the time that question could be answered properly, Phil was exhausted. Carrying the trunk upstairs, packing the body along with some personal effects, borrowing his brother-in-law’s Nash station wagon, cashing a forged check while pretending to be Jerry at a midtown branch, and hustling back to Bunny’s had taken all day, and it was a few minutes before five that afternoon when they knocked on the door to apartment 2A. High-pitched barking began at once, and then the sound of a woman’s voice admonishing the dog to oh, just shut up. A young blonde in a black leotard and dance skirt opened the door with a tiny, trembling dog in her arms.

  “Hello,” Bunny said. “We’re the neighbors from upstairs, and we need some help. I was wondering if Woody was home. We need another man.”

  “I bet you do,” the blonde said. “C’mon in. Woody should be getting out of bed anyhow.”

  “What kind of dog is that?” Phil asked.

  The dog barked fiercely as Bunny stepped inside, but when the blonde girl turned, it wagged its tail at Phil and laid down its pointy ears.

  “Pepito? A Mexican chihuahua. He’s nervous around strangers. But he likes you.” The dog craned his neck to sniff at Phil. “You carrying meat on you?”

  Phil held out his fingers and the dog began to lick him with gusto.

  The blonde hollered down the hallway, “Woody, get up. Company.”

  Groggy and disheveled, Woody emerged two minutes later from the bedroom, wearing a robe whose belt trailed behind him like a tail. His T-shirt and boxers were exposed by the open robe. The little dog wagged its tail furiously and leapt from the blonde’s arms to run to its master.

  “Sherry, baby, what is it?” And as he asked, he saw Phil standing near the doorway. “Hey, man, it’s you. From the street.”

  Phil waved a halfhearted hello. From behind him out popped Bunny, and she was more effusive in her greetings, flashing a big smile and ogling him. Woody gathered in his robe.

  “Would you be a dear?” Bunny asked. “Could you give us a hand bringing down a trunk? My husband wants to ship it, but wouldn’t you know, he’s stuck late at work and can’t lend us a hand.”

  “Sure, Mrs. G. I’d be happy to. Let me throw on some pants.”

  A few minutes later on the sixth floor landing, they heaved the chest. Phil needed a breather after the first flight of stairs, and on the fourth floor, Woody stopped and set down their burden. “Whatcha got in here, a body?” They made it to the car in twenty minutes, and Phil had laid down the backseat so that the trunk could rest in the bed of the wagon. Sweat dripped from the tips of their noses, and they sat on the front stoop, toweling off and smoking cigarettes. New Yorkers were not interested in their efforts, but hurried by to get out of the heat. Phil offered him a five-dollar bill for his help, but Woody refused all payment. “No problem. I’d do anything in the world for Bunny.” He corrected himself. “For Mrs. G.”

  All the way out to Canarsie, Phil wondered how well Woody knew her, and how, and what about the blonde with the chihuahua. He drove the Nash to the piers and with a small bribe to a Negro man sitting on the docks, they managed to dump the trunk into the deep and silent waters. As he slid the body over the edge, he almost went in himself, and later thought of that moment as the last chance he
had to save himself from misery. Around eleven, he finally made it home and slept till noon. The rest of the day he spent reliving the horrors of Jerry’s murder and the madness involved in getting rid of the body. Even Claire, who usually paid no attention to his comings and goings, remarked at dinner as to how pale and tired Phil looked, as if something was heavy on his mind. “You’ll be all right by yourself tomorrow? It’s Saturday, so you can sleep late again if you like, though I wouldn’t make it a habit. I’ll be going out for lunch.”

  He muttered his approval.

  The next morning she bent over him in his bed and kissed him on the forehead. “Good-bye, sweetheart,” Claire said. She was in a new sundress, a gold chain delicate at her throat, and her hair was newly cut and styled. “I’ll be at Moran’s. Back by three, I should think. Try to make yourself presentable, won’t you, darling?”

  With a groan, he rolled over and buried his head beneath the pillow. Fifty minutes later, he woke in a panic. Moran’s? Wasn’t that the place Bunny had arranged for their lunch? The poisoned seafood? He slapped some water on his face, jumped into an old suit, and took a cab across town, arriving well past the appointed hour. The maître d’ tried to stop him, and the waiters and patrons stared at Phil as he burst into the dining room, searching the tables for his wife and mistress. In the back corner, farthest from the door, sat Claire, a small grin turning the corners of her mouth. She was all alone, but another place had been set, and the appetizer had been served. No murderess sat in the empty chair. Perhaps she had gone to poison the main course. Phil rushed in like a madman. “Where’s Bunny?”

  “Phil, you look a fright. Please sit down, you’re making a scene.” She nodded to the waiter, who held out a chair. “Have something to eat, you’ll feel better. Try the oysters Rockefeller. They’re to die for.”

  Taking the seat next to her, Phil stared at his wife as though he had no idea who she was. A few seconds later, a fat man in a seersucker suit joined them at the table. Claire introduced him as Mr. Rosen, and the two men shook hands.

  “Bunny couldn’t make it, dear,” Claire said. “So I invited Mr. Rosen instead. He’s been doing a little work for me. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat, Philip? They have other choices besides seafood. How about a nice steak?”

  Half her words were inaudible, and he had only a general sense of what she was trying to say. All he could think about was Bunny and her plan to murder Claire, and how he had almost let it happen. He couldn’t let it happen. Things had spiraled out of control. One minute he’s kissing a beautiful dame behind her ear, the next he’s sweating over his life. “Nothing for me, thanks. Maybe just some coffee.”

  Claire nodded to the waiter, and coffee was served. All the while, she kept talking about something he could not quite follow regarding how she and Mr. Rosen were introduced and came to know each other. “… so you see, Phil, Mr. Rosen has been doing a bit of detective work for me. I’ve suspected, ever since that night you bumped into Katie and her friends outside of Bridge on the River Kwai, was it? And who else is there but Bunny. I’d have thought it was a coincidence like you told Kate, but then she said that when she first saw you two, it was like you were a couple of high school kids who got caught out on a date …”

  Trying to remember that afternoon, Phil sipped at his coffee, which was too hot to drink.

  “Mr. Rosen here is what they call a private dick in the movies. Don’t you just love the sound of that? Private dick?” She chuckled to herself. “Anyway, he’s been following you off and on for the past three months.”

  The baton was handed to Rosen. His voice was not gruff as Phil had expected, but surprisingly sweet and cheerful, the kind of voice that makes people listening feel gay and carefree. “Standard stuff, really. Philandering husband, happens all the time, and it’s just a matter of making a record of your dalliances, taking a few photos, collecting evidence.”

  Her laugh fairly tinkled with glee. “You see, I was about to divorce you, darling. I knew you were shtupping Bunny, and it was just a matter of Mr. Rosen here putting together his dossier. But you’ve saved me the trouble. Tell him about the chihuahua, Mr. Rosen.”

  The thought of the little dog inspired a particular delight, for Mr. Rosen grinned so widely that his gold fillings showed. “Funny story, Mr. Ketchum. Cigarette?” He extended a pack of Luckys, and everyone took a smoke. “When I’m engaged in a surveillance, I like to get some help, see, some people on the margins of my subject’s life that don’t really have a stake in the matter. You know, doormen are useful people in cases of adultery. So are bartenders and waiters. You remember the peanut vendor down at the park you and Bunny like to visit? He puts you two together six times over April and May. And you’re always running out of smokes right around the corner from her building. The Persian fella that runs the newsstand says you never have any coins, just bills. You get the idea. People see you around. Quite a bit.”

  The coffee had cooled just enough to drink, and the caffeine and nicotine raced through his worn-out system till he felt almost normal.

  “So I had the folksinger downstairs, Woody, feeding me bits of info, and it was the dog that proved the most helpful. You ever seen a Mexican chihuahua before, Mr. Ketchum? They are very nervous around strangers, and this little one barked at everyone in the building. Everyone, that is, except Bunny’s husband, Jerry. The thing is, Jerry took the trouble to bring that dog a treat when he came home from the deli. A little nosh. Some pastrami, maybe a bit of cheese, a morsel of corned beef.”

  Lunch arrived. A nice piece of sole for Claire, and a plate of fried clams for Rosen. Smelling the food, Phil wished he, too, had ordered something. He was suddenly ravaged with hunger.

  “So the dog loves Jerry and can’t trust nobody else. So naturally when Woody is helping you with the trunk, he’s wondering what Pepito sees in you. The time before, when you bumped into Woody on the street, you weren’t exactly the friendliest guy in Manhattan. So he figures the dog smells you and you’re just like Jerry since you been doing his wife—my apologies, Mrs. Ketchum—right, but of course Woody don’t know you smell like Jerry cause you got Jerry’s blood on your hand and your clothes. Hell, you got Jerry himself in that box he helped you carry six flights.” He stopped talking for a moment to squeeze lemon juice on his clams. “The thing is, Mr. Ketchum, I knew it was you since I was watching the joint all day. Jerry goes to work, you come in. Like usual. Jerry comes back home unexpected, but he never comes out. You come out in a hurry. So I figure that’s it, he’s finally caught you with the wife. But no, you come back with a car a couple hours later, and still Jerry’s never left. That’s not like him to miss work, and then down you come later to get Woody to help you put a big box in the back of that Nash. Too heavy for one man to lift. What’s inside, I ask myself.”

  Rosen speared a bunch of clams and forked them into his mouth. He did not savor but chewed for sustenance. “Nice car you had for the task, and too bad it was Claire’s brother’s, now the police know where to look for any blood that may have leaked out of the trunk. And then there’s the small matter of the pier at Canarsie. I followed you out there, the whole time wondering what you were going to do with that trunk. You should have gone out farther if you wanted to lose it in the Sound. They’ve got divers in the water as we speak. Only a matter of time before they find it. Right off the end of the pier.” He attacked the clam strips again, having come to the end.

  The look in her eyes revealed just how low Phil had sunk. “Couldn’t keep it in your trousers, could you? You and Bunny, both so impetuous. She phoned yesterday, while you were sleeping and muttering in your dreams, by the way. Still wanted to lunch as we’d scheduled, despite the fact that Jerry had gone missing overnight. I asked her if she’d called the police, and no, she hadn’t, so I called them for her. Told them everything Mr. Rosen had told me about his suspicions. She hadn’t even thought to dig the slug out of the wall. The pistol you bought was right there in the night table. Looks like I won
’t have to divorce you after all. Not when there’s the electric chair. The perfect murder …”

  His coffee cup was empty, and he wished the waiter would return soon.

  Rosen swallowed another mouthful of clams. “Bunny has already confessed. I was just off the phone with my buddy at the precinct right before you came in. She told the police everything. How you planned it, bought the gun, and pulled the trigger. She claims she begged you not to do it, but you couldn’t stand waiting any longer.”

  Through the picture window, red and blue police lights flashed.

  “But it wasn’t me,” Phil said. “It was her. I could never hurt a fly. I came here to save you. She was going to poison you, too. It was Bunny who shot him. Bunny, not me.”

  Nobody in the bathroom said a word, and the woman in the black dress reached up for the gun atop the medicine cabinet, trembling as she pointed it toward my heart. I froze, my back to the door, and all the women faced me and pressed forward in the tiny space. “What are you going to do with that gat?”

  “You coward,” Bunny said. “You idiot. You never intended to shoot Jerry, and you never were going to divorce her, were you? And I loved you, yet you wouldn’t take the rap for me. It was always about you, just about you. Your lust. Your desires. You, you, you.”

  “You-you-you,” the little boy chimed in.

  “Shoot him,” Dolly cried from behind Bunny’s left shoulder. On the right stood Adele, equally bloodthirsty, vengeance in her eyes. “Do it,” Jane hissed. “He deserves it,” Alice said. Flo wagged her finger at me, and Marie’s eyes widened in anticipation. I looked to the old man to save me, but he was playing peekaboo with the child on his lap.

  “Aren’t you going to help me like before? Knock the gun from her hand? Intervene?”

  The women advanced like a pack of zombies.

  “Nothing to be done,” he said. “After all, you’ve not done well by any of them.”