A Hard Death

by Jonathan Hayes

  Another bang, and then high yelping, and the laughter grew louder.

  Jenner pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, and stepped out onto his porch. He followed the sound around the corner of the walkway. The path led through a handful of rangy slash pines down a slight slope to the cluster of four derelict honeymoon cottages.

  Under the yellow light filtering through the trees from a high streetlamp, Jenner took it all in instantly. Three boys, mid-teens, backs to him. A bottle of cheap whiskey. On the porch of a boarded-up cabin was an open Papa John’s pizza box, a couple of slices remaining. Trembling in the shadows behind the porch railings was a squat, barrel-shaped dog. Its fur was matted and dirty and its snout looked like a funnel stuck on the end of the barrel.

  Jenner stepped over the low concrete wall.

  The dog began to creep along the porch toward the pizza. One of the boys was waiting for him, a large roofing shingle held ready by his side. When the dog crawled out from behind the railing, the boy wound his arm back and whipped the shingle at the dog with a snap of his wrist, hitting its flank and sending it yelping back to safety. The dog was half-visible in the shadows, shaking with fear and hunger.

  Jenner stepped into the light. “Cut it out.”

  They turned, looking him up and down. The oldest one turned back to the porch.

  The dog hesitated, then edged forward a little. It looked around frantically at the boys, then at the pizza, then slunk back into the dark, whimpering.

  The boy picked up another roofing shingle.

  Jenner said, “I said, enough.”

  The boy, a wiry, tow-headed kid in a polo shirt with a popped collar, turned, looked him up and down coolly, then said, “Who are you? That your dog?” He was maybe seventeen.

  Jenner shook his head. “No. I’m someone who doesn’t like watching little assholes hurt animals.”

  “Then don’t watch.” The other two boys—his brothers, maybe—scurried away. The boy wagged the shingle, gauging its weight and spring, making practice wrist snaps.

  The dog started to crawl toward the pizza again.

  Jenner said, “Don’t do it.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else I’ll show you what it’s like when something bigger than you picks on you.”

  The boy was now uncertain. “You wouldn’t. I’d sue.”

  “I’d deny it.” Jenner paused for a second, then said, “Or maybe I wouldn’t—what do you think they’d do to me for smacking a—what are you? Five foot ten, a buck seventy-five?—for smacking some overgrown teenager for torturing a puppy? Courthouse in the Beaches, fill that jury with a bunch of nice, dog-loving old ladies? They’d probably give me a medal.”

  The boy’s face was sullen as he tried to figure Jenner out.

  Jenner looked at the dog, who was nearing the pizza, snuffling and whining; he didn’t hear the footsteps on the soft earth behind him.

  The boy’s attitude changed: he’d been about to put the shingle down, but instead he straightened and raised it up.

  Jenner sighed. “Your parents know you do this sort of shit?”

  The boy smirked. “Ask him yourself!” He was looking behind Jenner.

  Jenner turned just in time to see the fist flying at his head. The punch connected hard, and Jenner fell backward, then scrambled to his feet, shaking it off.

  The father was in his early forties, in sweatpants and an oversize NASCAR T-shirt, pretty far gone on the journey from muscle to flab. His fists floated in front of him as he swayed from side to side. His breath reeked of booze.

  “You mess with my boy, you mess with me…”

  “I wasn’t messing with your kid.” Jenner rubbed his left cheek and eye gingerly, then gestured to the cabin. “Your boy was beating on that dog over there, and I told him to stop.”

  The man looked behind Jenner to the porch, where the dog was wolfing down the pizza.

  “Dog looks fine to me. Anyways, it’s a stray. If the cops came, they’d take it away and kill it—looks like it made out okay.” He called to his son. “Don’t worry, Mike, buddy. You didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  He looked at Jenner. “We clear on this? You got anything to say?”

  Jenner shrugged. “Not really. But if your kid picks up another shingle, I’m going to bury my boot in his ass.”

  The man flushed, then rolled up his sleeves, an angry grin on his face. “You really want to get into it over a dog?”

  Jenner shrugged again. “I guess.”

  The man began to circle the clearing, Jenner following, eyes locked. The boys moved back into the shadows. In the half-light, their expressions were eager; they’d watched their father fight before. And, Jenner figured, if they looked this eager, it was because he always won.

  The guy was big enough. Contractor? Roofer? Arms like that, had to be some sort of physical labor. He was big, but he was drunk, and Jenner was counting on him being slow.

  Jenner dropped his shoulders and waited for the attack. Six months ago, he would never have done this. But six months ago, he’d almost lost his life because he was out of shape and not ready to fight. And things were different now. He ran now, ran most days. At home, he spent time at an old boxing gym off Canal Street, lifting weights and sparring, working the heavy bag and the speed bag until the sweat showered off him. Jenner was strong now, and he was fast. He was ready to fight.

  And then he realized that he wanted to fight. Marty and Bobbie, the baby-faced sheriff, too broke to pay at the diner—a fucking diner, for Christ’s sake! And now these little pricks torturing some helpless stray.

  He wanted the fight. He didn’t care if he won or lost, he just wanted to hit someone, to feel his fist smash into a jaw or an eye or a face.

  The man lurched at him, arms flailing wildly, Jenner blocking the glancing blows as he slipped aside, turning in time to get in a good pound to the side of the man’s head. The man swayed back onto his heels, dazed for a second, then turned to Jenner, staggering away as he struggled for balance.

  Jenner dropped his guard and waited.

  The man came at him again in a wobbling gust of acetone and sweat, and again Jenner stepped aside, hooking him hard in his doughy gut as he passed. The man dropped to his knees with an “Ouf!” and Jenner hit him hard across his face. The man toppled backward slowly and hit the ground.

  Jenner quickly stepped over him. “Enough? Is that enough?”

  The man’s head rocked back and forth against the ground, and he held his hands to his face to try to stop the blood pouring freely from his nose.

  “I…You broke it…You broke my nose!”

  “We’re done, right? This is finished, okay?” Jenner straightened.

  From behind him came the sound of children crying.

  The man pulled himself up a bit, nodding. He raised his hand for help, and Jenner grabbed it with his left hand; his right was in agony, fire shooting from his knuckles to his elbow, a numb feeling across the side of his arm. He leaned back to pull the man to his feet, then stepped back, showing both his hands, empty palms forward. Jenner waited for the man’s attack, but the guy’s aggression was spent.

  The oldest boy stepped up and slammed a two-by-four into Jenner’s back, and suddenly, all three boys were on him, holding his arms, punching him, dragging him down, the father swaying on his feet as he watched.

  Jenner was on the ground, the smallest biting his arm while the other two kicked him. He grabbed the youngest, spun him away, and fought to stand, the middle kid dangling from his shoulders, when there was a loud whoop! and the clearing filled with flashing blue and white lights.

  There was a shriek of electronic feedback, then a disembodied voice crackled, “Get the fucking kid off that man now!”

  They all stood frozen, lit up in the glare of the cruiser’s spotlight, then another siren whoop, and the father lumbered forward to drag his son off Jenner’s neck.

  “All of you, stay where you are!”

  Peering into the dark, Jenner saw the car d
oor swing open. The Weeble-like figure of Detective Rudge moved smoothly across the flood of the high beams and descended into the clearing.

  Rudge said, “Mike Keener, you old sonuvagun! Check out my astonishment as our paths cross yet again! And Mike Junior? Always good to see you…”

  He glanced at the other boys. “Hmm. This is a first…”

  He shook his head, and turned to Jenner. “And Dr. Jenner? I’m surprised at you, disturbing the peace like this! What’s the matter? Port Fontaine too quiet for someone from the Big City?”

  Rudge turned to the Keeners and said, “You all stay there,” then took Jenner by the arm and led him out of the light.

  “You okay, doc?”

  Jenner felt the tender area on the back of his head where the kid had connected with the edge of the two-by-four; his hand came away sticky with blood. His back ached, his left eye felt tight, and the scratches around his neck stung, but the worst pain was in his right hand, from where he’d punched Keener; his swollen fist felt like a sack of crushed bone and blood.

  Jenner nodded. “I think my hand may be a bit fucked up.”

  Rudge laughed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Never scrap with a redneck, doc—they’ll beat you every time! Want to go to Port Fontaine General?”

  “No.” Jenner winced as he straightened his fingers, then looked over to the clearing. “I was winning until the kids piled on…”

  Rudge sighed. “Ah, doc. ‘I was winning until the kids piled on…’ If I had a nickel for every time I heard that…You guys coulda been on Cops!”

  He looked back at Keener, who was rubbing his jaw. “But, yes. Yes, you were winning—that right hook? That was a beauty, some Raging Bull shit. I was surprised he was still awake after that one.”

  Jenner turned, irritated. “You were watching? How long?”

  “I got here just in time to see you two hombres face off.”

  Jenner shook his head. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

  Rudge shrugged. “Mike Keener and I go way back, and I liked your chances.” He nodded. “Had you as the winner. I didn’t want to spoil your fun, but when the boys started whomping on you, well, that just didn’t seem sporting…”

  He looked over at Keener and his sons. The man was still upright, swaying a bit. Behind him, Mike Junior glared at them; both his brothers were quiet and tearful.

  “You going to want to press charges, doctor?”

  Jenner shook his head. “No. But maybe Keener needs to go to the hospital.”

  “Champ! Not that it wasn’t a great shot, but he’s fine, just fine. What you’re seeing there is just the drink. That leaning-over shit? That’s his baseline function.”

  He stepped over toward the Keeners.

  “Okay, Mike, this is what’s going to happen…The doctor has decided he doesn’t want me to throw your sorry ass in jail. He’s going to let this whole thing slide, both you and your boys. But I want you to hear me on this: you come over here one more time, I hear you been fucking around here, you’re going straight to jail, all of you. And Mike Junior? You’re still on probation, right? You don’t want me to run you in.”

  He looked at Keener, leaning against a tree, glowering back at him. “Now you boys get your dad home now; I think he’s feeling poorly.”

  They watched the Keeners head up to the parking lot, Mike Junior propping up his father, the other two following along behind, like ducklings.

  Rudge turned to Jenner. “You sure you’re in one piece, doc? Hand still attached?”

  Jenner nodded. “What were you doing here?”

  “I was going to be neighborly, stop in and say, ‘Welcome to Port Fontaine,’” Rudge said. “You’re on my way home—I live in the Reaches, too, a mile or two down the road in Golden Palms.”

  He looked over to his car. “I oughta put out the lights before I kill that battery.”

  Jenner followed him up the slope. Rudge’s car was a late-model Taurus with county plates. The detective pulled the mag-mount beacon off the roof and tossed it onto the passenger seat, then extinguished the bracket spot lamp on the driver’s side.

  He looked at his watch.

  “Almost eight p.m. I’m looking at you and thinking, ‘Now there’s a man who could use a drink.’…You up for a drink, doc?”

  “Why not? Is there somewhere near?”

  Rudge nodded, then gestured for Jenner to follow him. He walked nimbly back down the incline to the clearing, where he stooped to pick up the bottle of whiskey. He lifted it to show Jenner: still three-quarters full.

  “I grew up poor, doctor. Where I’m from, we don’t waste good liquor…”

  Jenner nodded gravely.

  Rudge laughed out loud and slapped Jenner’s shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, doc! I grew up just fine!” He paused, smile wide in the yellow light. “Still don’t waste liquor, though.”

  He looked around. “Now, where can we drink this?”

  Jenner grinned. “We sit by the pool, we can watch the possums mate.”

  Rudge took a swig, then capped the bottle; he lifted it, and gestured upward. “Quick, to the pool!”

  The dog, having finished the pizza, joined them, trotting in front of Jenner as he walked up the slope, Rudge puffing behind.

  Rudge said, “Doc, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  He paused, then added, “Casablanca, 1942.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The phone was a grinding dentist’s drill jammed into the meat of Jenner’s head.

  He sat up, disoriented in the pitch black; his eyes swam with stars as the drill bit sank deeper into his brain.

  He couldn’t move his legs. He leaned forward, but they wouldn’t move.

  He reached out to touch them; he could feel them. Jenner knew he was still drunk. But he had sensation. Why couldn’t he move his legs?

  The phone rang again. Jenner tugged at the sheets over his legs in the dark. He was trapped.

  His hands, moving slowly now, touched something big and warm lying on him, something warm and wet. With a gasp, he jerked his hand away, rolling away, kicking and struggling to free his legs from the body lying on his.

  The phone rang again.

  He was trapped by the covers, pulling himself desperately slowly toward the floor, then the dog jumped up, and Jenner slipped off the bed.

  The phone rang again.

  How much had they drunk? He remembered Rudge having another bottle in his car, remembered standing next to Rudge, bathed in the luminous green glow of the swimming pool, to toast Marty and Bobbie Roburn. Swearing, he clawed his way to his knees and yanked the phone cord until the phone fell from the bedside table with a bang.

  The clock radio read 3:00 a.m.

  “Hello.”

  “Dr. Jenner, sorry, it’s Jeannie from the service. Sorry to bother you, doctor, but we have a caller who insists it’s urgent. Says it’s an emergency, but he won’t speak to anyone but you.”

  Jenner turned the light on. The dog heaved itself back up onto the bed with difficulty, wagging its stubby tail. It sat, peering into Jenner’s face.

  Jenner turned the light back off again, sank his head into his hands as he cradled the phone to his ear. Jeannie’s voice seemed unnecessarily shrill.

  “An emergency? Tell him to call 911.”

  “I did, doctor. He says he can’t call the police, and he will only speak with you. Says he needs to report a death, and only to you.”

  “Ugh.”

  He dragged himself up onto the bed, and pushed the dog aside.

  “Move.”

  “Excuse me, doctor?”

  “Not you.” The dog moved closer, wagging its tail and panting hotly on Jenner as he sat.

  “What does this guy want again?”

  “To report a death. But, doctor? He’s calling from a New York City cell phone.”

  “What? How do you know? What’s the number?” If a friend from home was calling, it was important.

  “We got c
aller ID; it’s a cell phone registered to an Adam Weiss.”

  Jenner shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s very persistent, doctor.” She paused. “He’s actually been quite rude.”

  “Unh.” Jenner struggled to get in gear.

  “Shall I tell him to call back during business hours?”

  Jenner wiped his eyes, then winced as he felt the tender swelling of his brow.

  “No…No. I’m awake. Put him through, let’s find out what this is about…”

  He sat up and turned the light back on. The dog was leaning against him. Its fur was wet, and smelled of Jenner’s Aveda Chamomile conditioner. In the bedside light, Jenner could see soaked towels around the room.

  He remembered Rudge saying he should wash the dog if he was going to keep it in his room. But why the hell would Jenner keep it? A dog was the last thing he needed.

  “You’re on with Dr. Jenner now.”

  “Doctor? Dr. Jenner, from New York?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there anyone else on the line?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Christ, he didn’t need this now.

  “Jeannie, you still there?”

  Silence.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. What’s this about?”

  The voice was desperate and nervous. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry, but this is way out of my league. I can’t call 911 because these people think the cops are in on it. And I don’t want anyone knowing my name and location.”

  “You’re Adam Weiss. From New York City.”

  “Wh…What? How?”

  “Well, you called on your cell phone, and now you just confirmed it to me a second ago, Einstein. C’mon, this is Florida, not, you know, Biafra or whatever—we have caller ID. If I wanted, I could even have the police triangulate your location.” Jenner wasn’t actually sure about that, but the guy had woken him up and deserved a few lumps.

  “Oh God!” The voice was young. Late teens, early twenties, Jenner figured.

  “Mr. Weiss, spit it out or let me go back to sleep. I have a bad headache and don’t feel like sitting around bullshitting.”

  Weiss spoke in an urgent whisper. “Please, Dr. Jenner, you’ve got to get me out of this. I think my life is in danger…”