***
Now, I realize I‘m no one special; I am not the first to kill for love nor will I be the last. But as I search the archives of the human memory, I find it rarely mentioned and never exalted. Where as, suffering in the name of love…the list is endless; and the names of those who have suffered we hold in high esteem and praise, no matter how shady their character.
One would think murder to be just as much a desperate measure as suffering, but obviously not to those whose love is lifeless.
Who will write our sonnet? Will they mention the names of Justine and Alex and only feel distain?
“Oh…I remember them…aren’t they the two who killed her husband?”
Don’t they understand there are many forms of suffering? The minutes, hours, days you are apart! Knowing you can never have what is rightfully yours! To hide in darkness where the most precious of jewels never refract the sunlight and show their true beauty. This is suffering, too!
Or is it shedding of blood that makes their suffering more sacred and ours profane?
All suffering ends in bloodshed. In their case, it was their own; in ours it is someone else’s. What is the difference…blood is blood!
***
Chi and I arranged to meet at his apartment. I was to bring the gun I had in my possession, which had once been the property of that well-known private dick, Harold Macintosh (like the apple). Chi would use the other revolver, the one he took from the Monica incident. We were to dress in dark and inconspicuous clothing. We were taking every precaution we could think of.
Though our destination was uptown, we walked three blocks west from Chi’s place and took a taxi going northeast. From there, we walked another three blocks farther east and caught a taxi going northwest, where we walked the remaining five blocks to the Hutchinson’s home.
There were few people out walking the streets of the city that night. When someone did pass us by, we made sure to keep our heads down and not to make eye contact.
When we arrived, we huddled in the shadow of the stairs leading up to the front door of the Hutchinson home. There, we put on surgical rubber gloves. Keeping our hands in our pockets, we went up the stairs and entered the vestibule.
The front door was of black iron fashioned in a vine and leaf design; behind was a sheet of clear glass. We looked past the black iron vines, through the clear glass at a long hallway; there was nobody there…empty. A single light fixture in the hall was all the illumination we had to work by.
I took the key Justine gave me out of my pocket and slowly inserted it into the lock. I turned it ever so carefully to make as little noise as possible. With a click, it unlocked. Taking hold of the doorknob with equal caution, I turned it to the right until it clicked. Pushing against the door, inch by inch, we opened it just enough to enter.
Once inside, I turned and inched the door back into place. I released my hold on the doorknob; it snapped back into position with a loud metallic clank that sent shivers up and down both our spines. We turned to see no one had come to investigate, the hall before us was empty; we sighed with relief.
Like two thieving magpies, we propped ourselves up on our toes and slowly and tediously made our way down the hall, trying our best not to allow the wooden floor panels to squeak under the weight of our bodies.
As we approached the living room, it became obvious our precautions were a waste of time; the television was blaring; anything less than a gunshot would surely go unheard.
The ever-changing flashing light of the television flickered on our faces. We stood in the hallway, nudging our heads through the living room entryway; we took our guns out and held them in front of us.
We inched our way into the room; everything in its place, just the way we expected, save for one important item. The nightly news report was beginning to air. Propped in front of the television was a large lounge chair, in front of that an upright snack tray on which was a plate holding a triple-decker sandwich. With closer inspection, it surprised us to find the chair empty…no sign of Jack! Where the hell was he?
Just then, we nearly jumped out of our skin, startled by a loud wooden thump that sounded from behind us. We turned to see a large swinging door, which obviously connected the living room with the kitchen, fly open. Jack came walking in with a tall glass of beer in his hand. He stopped in front of us; in shock, his eyes went wide.
I knew it was Jack from the short glimpse of him I had while hiding the night he and his friends came to the upstate country home and from some photos Justine showed me. He was an elderly gent, tall, bald on the top with thinning white hair encircling the back of his head from ear to ear. His nose puffy and red from too much whiskey, and his belly swollen from too much beer, it hung down far enough to hide his belt buckle.
Chi raised his arm and pointed his gun at Jack’s head. Before Chi could pull the trigger, Jack tossed the glass of beer at him. The liquid splattered in every direction; the glass hit Chi’s gun-hand, deflecting his aim upward. The gun went off; large chunks of plaster fell down from the ceiling and landed on our heads and the floor. Jack turned, and in a flash, pushed the swinging door open and disappeared into the kitchen. Chi and I took off after him.
He was surprisingly spry for a fat old bastard…and smart?
Inside the kitchen, he tossed the breakfast table over, knocked over the chairs, and pushed appliances off their shelves and onto the floor…toaster, blender, coffeepot, and what have you. He exited the kitchen from a door at the far end of the room; but before he did, he switched off the lights. Chi and I fumbled in the dark, crashing through the obstacle course Jack created. We finally made it out of the kitchen and found ourselves back once more in the hallway.
The bedrooms and major bathrooms of the home were all on the second floor. The layout for the first floor was a circle of connecting rooms with a hallway running down the center with a guest bathroom at the end of it.
Frantically, Jack ran the gamut, hustling into one room and then through to the next, desperately tossing everything he could get his hands on in our path, to slow us down. He even found the time and strength to prop the desk in his office against the door. Chi and I had to shoulder into it five or six times before we could enter.
The entire scene was becoming too comical for words, chasing him around from room to room.
Finally, we ended where we started; all three of us were standing once again in the living room, only now something unexpected had been added to the mix. Somehow, in his travels around the house, Jack had gotten his hands on a gun. He lifted his arm and aimed the pistol directly at Chi who lifted his gun and pointed it at Jack.
It was a standoff, each kept aim on the other; neither one flinched nor said a word for what felt like an unbearably long time. And to add to the tension, the phone began to ring. It rang without stopping, over and over; neither one of the gunmen paid it much mind, but it was driving me crazy. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I spoke up.
“Maybe, we should answer it?” I asked, directing my question only to Chi.
“Don’t be stupid, Alex, of course not!” Chi snapped at me, without the slightest waver of his aim at Jack.
“Alex…?” echoed Jack, his face lit up at the sound of my name, “I thought I recognized you…you son of a bitch!”
Throwing all caution to the wind and abandoning any possible thoughts of his own safety, Jack swung around, aimed his gun at me and pulled the trigger.
Now…I’m sure you’re all familiar with the saying, “In the blink of an eye”. It expresses a minute span of time, a fleeting moment that passes by so quickly a person would believe the only thing you could do in the blinking of an eye would be to blink your eye. But the laws of the universe are strange and complicated; you cannot fathom the amount of activity that can occur in such a brief interlude.
In the blink of an eye, Jack swung around, aimed his gun at me and pulled the trigger. At that exact moment, Chi jumped into the line of fire and received the brunt of the gunshot square in
the chest. As he fell to the floor, he fired his gun. The bullet entered the lower-back portion of Jack’s jaw, just above his throat and exited from the upper-back part of his skull, spraying bits of bone, blood, and brains as high up as the ceiling. Jack’s body hit the floor two seconds after Chi.
The phone stopped ringing.
Looking at the gapping hole in the top of Jack’s skull, there was no doubt in my mind he was dead. His blood was still oozing out of the wound and forming a large puddle on the wood-paneled floor.
I turned my attention to Chi; his cold lifeless eyes, staring up at me.
A feeling of intense fear and confusion swept over me. I guess you could say, at that moment, I lost it.
The blaring of the television was driving me to madness. I aimed my gun and shot out the screen. There was a small explosion and a flash of bright light; it seemed I caused a fuse to blow; all the lights went out; I found myself in darkness.
I began to panic; all I knew was I wanted out of there. I began to run; but after one step forward, I slipped on the blood drenched floor and fell down on top of both bodies. The gun went flying out of my hand, but I was too scared to go groping in the dark after it. I quickly lifted myself up and found my way into the hallway. There was a dull stream of light coming from the street through the clear glass front door; I headed for it.
Outside, I rushed down the stairs and took a sharp left toward the corner of the block. I could hear the siren of a police car, the instant I turned the corner.
I looked over my shoulder to see a police squad car stop in front of the Hutchinson’s house. Two police officers jumped out of the car and ran up the stairs.
Though I felt a strong urge to run, I didn’t. I didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to me, so I continued down the street at a normal pace. With my hands in my pockets, I was struggling to remove the rubber gloves.
Dumbfounded, I asked questions. How had the police arrived so quickly? For that matter, why were they there in the first place? Had we unknowingly set off some alarm? All these questions haunted me, as I walked on. But I couldn’t think of any logical answers.
Still walking, I turned to look behind. No one was chasing me; the street was empty. I kept walking on for four or five more blocks. I decided to flag down a taxi and head back home.
Seated in the back of the taxi, I quickly decided against taking the evasive procedures Chi and I used earlier and gave the cabbie my home address.
“Small world…ain’t it, sir?” said the cabbie.
“How’s that?” I asked, looking out the back window of the cab and seeing nothing unusual.
“I said…small world, ain’t it, sir?” repeated the cabbie, “I mean, you winding up in my cab after all this time, sir.”
“I don’t understand?” I said, sounding slightly confused and a bit annoyed.
“The hospital…upstate…I was the guy who took you up there, remember? We sat in the parking lot till your lady friend came out.”
I searched for his cabby license; it all came back to me, when I read his name, Duncan Malone.
“Yeah, sure…I remember, now. But tell me, how is it you remember me?” I asked.
“Well, it’s easy. I always remember people who want me to take them on real long trips. And I always remember people who give me real big tips; and you were both…a long trip and a big tip. It’s easy.”
We rode on for the next few miles in silence. Then I remember something Duncan told me that day in the parking lot.
“Didn’t you tell me you’ve been married to the same woman for thirty years, but were only happy for twenty of them?”
“Forty-eight years, sir,” he corrected me, “Forty-eight years…but when love dies there ain’t nothing you can do. No use crying over spilled milk, so they say. But I’ll tell you one thing, though…”
“What’s that?” My curiosity stirred.
“Love can leave a bad taste in you heart. You know what I mean?” said Duncan, bobbing his head up and down slightly, agreeing with himself.
“Yeah, I suppose so?” His roadside philosophy left me bewildered.
Duncan stopped the cab in front of my place; I got out and stood next to his open window.
“How much do I owe you?”
He looked at his meter, “That’ll be eight-twenty, sir.”
I opened my wallet and took every bill out of it; there must have been at least five hundred dollars.
“So you remember long trips and big tips? Well, here’s an even bigger tip. Do me a favor and forget you ever saw me!”
“Yes, sir…!” He took the cash, smiled and gave me a small salute and then drove off.
My feet felt like lead, as I walked up the stairs to my studio. Once inside, I turned on the lights and found my hands and clothing stained with blood. I went into the bathroom, undressed and took a quick shower.
Wearing just my bathrobe, I walked over to the bar caddy and poured myself a tall straight scotch.
Memory of the last few hours kept whirling around in my head. In my mind, I could see Chi’s unresponsive dead eyes staring into mine. Insane as he was, he in fact beyond a doubt cared for me. He had taken a bullet for me. Something I would never have done for him, or anybody else, for that matter.
Still, just thinking about it made me feel sad, and a sensation of loneliness, stronger than any I ever experienced in my life, came over me.
Just then, the buzzer to my front door sounded. I pressed the intercom button.
“Police department, Mr. Defy, please, let us in.”
All the panic I experienced an hour earlier returned.
“What’s this all about? I don’t understand! There must be some mistake?” I couldn’t hide the fear in my voice.
“Just open the door, Mr. Defy,” they commanded. I obeyed, and pressed the button for them to enter.
Next moment, two uniformed police officers stood before me in my studio. One was an old fellow, gray-haired, looking near to retirement age, a bit overweight and out of breath from the climb up the stairs. The other officer was a young puppy of a recruit, dark haired, wiry, and an air of anxiousness of duty, combined with a feeling of superiority. It was clear from the start the senior officer was in charge.
“Mr. Defy…Mr. Alexandre Defy?” asked the elder officer.
“Yes…I’m Defy, but there must be some mistake?”
“How do you know, if there’s been a mistake or not, if you don’t know why were here? Maybe we’ve come to tell you that you’ve won the Irish Sweepstakes?” the young officer said mockingly.
The elder shot him a look of disapproval; it shut him up, but the smirk on his face remained.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Defy, you’ll have to come with us. You’re under arrest,” said the elder.
“Under arrest…what’s the charge?”
“Murder, sir, you’ll have to come with us.”
“Murder? Now, I know there’s been a mistake!”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. But let me give you a piece of advice. If what you’re saying is true. If there has been a mistake, the only way to clear the matter up would be to come with us,” the elder officer advised in a firm but kindly tone. He obviously used this logical approach before with a fair amount of success, and I could see why; there was clearly nothing left to do but let out a big sigh and act in full accordance with their requests.
“Well, I can’t go out like this,” I gestured, pointing to my bathrobe, “I’ll have to put on some clothing.”
“Of course, sir, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay within sight. If you tell Officer Brodsky, here, what it is you need and where he can find it, he can get it for you.”
I slipped off my bathrobe, to put on my street clothes. I stood there naked and feeling especially uncomfortable with two men watching me dress. Little did I know at the time, this would only be the first of many future indignities I would have to endure, at the lower end of the totem pole, in comparison.
“Don’t forget to bring a va
lid identification?” warned the senior officer.
I started walking toward my desk. The younger officer swung his arm around and backhanded me with such intensity I fell to the floor.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he spat the words out at me.
“I was just going to get my wallet!” I said, pointing to the wallet resting on my desk. I slowly and carefully made my way back up onto my feet.
“Well, just watch it, that’s all! I’ll get it for you!” he spouted.
He went over to the desk, picked up the wallet, and tossed it to me. He received another disapproving glance from his senior partner, but it was clear such looks didn’t intimidate him. He reached behind his back and brought out a pair of handcuffs and approached me, motioning for me to turn around.
“Are those going to be necessary?” I humbly sent my plea to the older officer.
“Sorry, sir…it’s strict police procedures.”
They informed me of my rights, as we walked down the stairs.
Downstairs, out on the street, with my hands cuffed behind me, I looked about. Two police officers gently guiding me to a squad car.
In all the years I have lived in my studio, I never meet or saw a single one of my neighbors. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I didn’t have any.
Now, when the police were carting me away like a common criminal…a murderer…they were all out as if it were a Fourth of July block party. Some with their noses pressed up against their windowpanes, while others stood at their front doors pointing their fingers at me, as I got into the squad car.
I’m sure, at some later point, the police would question them all.
I could just hear their replies, “He was always such a quiet young man, never caused anybody any trouble. What did he do? You don’t say…really…really? Well, I always thought there was something suspicious about him.”
***
At the Police Station, I was photographed, fingerprinted, booked, and then placed in a holding cell away from any other prisoners.
Memoirs of a Gigolo Page 24
