by Rusk, Day
This is insane, he thought as the second hour approached. He was wasting his time. Even if one of them showed up, could he actually fit in? He’d dressed for the occasion in old jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket that looked like it was well worn, but was actually an illusion he had paid a pretty penny for in a high end store – the worn look was in.
You’d better get out of here before you find yourself in trouble, he thought, as he adjusted himself to an upright position in the driver’s seat and reached for the key in the ignition. It was time to go home.
As if life wanted to taunt him, at the exact moment he decided it was time to leave, the bastard appeared. Walking down the street towards the bar, appearing like he didn’t have a care in the world, was Harry Madwin, a dangerous-looking late forty-something man, whom Leslie knew was a longstanding member of Morgan’s crew.
“Fuck. Damnit. DAMNIT!” said Leslie as he watched Harry approach the bar and enter.
Wasn’t this what he’d been waiting for? He’d been waiting for one of them, and his prayers had been answered. It was the moment of truth, or at least one of the moments of truth that would confront him this evening.
“This is what you wanted,” he said quietly under his breath.
Leslie could feel a hollow sensation in his stomach as he considered his options; whenever he felt nervous it seemed to play on his bowels and stomach bringing a bit of discomfort. He often laughed at this, figuring if he was as nervous as the late Don Knott’s had always played it, he’d be permanently holed up in a washroom. Leslie took a deep breath; it was the best way he knew to try and control his body’s rebellion. He’d come this far; farther than he’d ever come before. He’d thought about a moment like this for a long, long time, but now that it was here he wasn’t sure what to do; he felt nervous, yes, but add anxious and frightened to that mix as well; at the same time, his mind was trying to find the strength and courage to move forward, despite those other nagging feelings. Surely he hadn’t expected it to be easy. Of course not.
Leslie took the first step and got out of his car. He still wasn’t prepared to cross the street and enter the bar, but at least his hand had left the key and the ignition and he wasn’t driving away. That was an important first step, but what now?
He was pacing – thinking.
Fuck, he thought. Fuck it!
He’d tried a lot of different things over the years to come to terms with his pain; it had all failed, even trying to lose himself in a bottle. He’d tried a lot over the years to come to terms with his pain, except this. This, he needed to do. Worst case scenario, it would all go horribly wrong and the result would be his being released from his pain as he was relieved of his life. It would finally be over. Sort of a macabre win-win, if you chose to be an optimist.
Leslie looked at the bar and realized it was now or never; if he walked away tonight there was no point in ever returning; could he live with that? He’d made up his mind, ignored yet another rumble in his stomach and a brief cramping pain in his bowels and started making his way across the street.
For a lot of people there is pride in ownership; that didn’t appear to be the case with Duffy’s. As bad as the neighborhood looked, and as bad as the clientele had looked making their way in and out of the bar, the inside of Duffy’s was just as bad. Leslie would call it a shithole, but that was actually kind of disparaging to some of the finer shitholes that probably existed around the city. What was worst than a shithole? He had no idea, except that he was now sitting in the middle of it.
The lighting was low which was probably for the best; one didn’t always like to see the various diseases and filth they were sitting in if they hoped to enjoy their beer; hopefully in a clean glass (weren’t tough guys supposed to drink out of dirty glasses, like in the old-time Westerns?). The furniture, even in the dark, was dated and worn; he could only imagine what it looked like in the mornings with all the lights on and possibly some sunlight sneaking in through the cracks that had formed in the tinted windows. The place obviously catered to the city’s tough guys, so it made sense the decor was early caveman; and the way Leslie figured it, like the cavemen had discovered, a good fire would really help fix a lot, just so long as the firemen let Duffy’s burn to the ground. There were license plates from various states decorating the walls, along with Harley-Davidson signs (was that mandatory in places like this?), some boxing photos, and even a little erotica, although that was being generous in definition. Leslie firmly believed there was a difference between erotica and pornography, and Duffy’s was definitely leaning more towards the pornographic. Of course based on the quality of the female customers he was observing, he imagined not a one of them voiced their displeasure with such vulgar pictures on the wall. Much like the men, there were a lot of ladies who looked like they were desperately trying to chase lost youth. How sad it must be, thought Leslie, to be in that position with your latest conquest and staring down at a faded tramp stamp? The bar, which wasn’t all that big, was packed; the waitress who served him his beer looked a little past her due date, as were the other two waitresses taking care of customers. It looked like waitressing at Duffy’s was where old strippers went to die.
Leslie set up shop in a corner booth; he had a great view of the bar, where Harry was busy talking up one of the bar’s younger female patrons, a woman who was rail thin, and Leslie guessed looked a lot older than she really was, no doubt due to drug use. She was all over Harry, and only left his side after Leslie noticed him slipping her something that made her rush off to the bathroom like a kid on Christmas morning. She returned from the bathroom a little calmer and continued to fawn over Harry.
Nursing his beer in the corner, Leslie couldn’t help wondering about Harry. Decades had passed since he’d seen him. He knew he wasn’t the type of man who was afraid to get his hands dirty. Over those years, as their lives went in different directions, who knew what crimes Harry had committed; what deeds he had performed to please his overlord – Morgan Neil? Harry had probably joined ranks with Morgan because he was looking for a better life. It was a way to make money; he imagined lots of money. If that was so, why was he here? If he had embraced the criminal life and had done so to live a better one, have the finer things in life, what the hell was he doing here in this shithole with the scum of the scum? If this is where he came to enjoy himself and look for companionship, he could have done that without resorting to the life of crime he’d embraced. Surely, standing or sitting amongst him was also a wealth of petty criminals; lowlifes who hadn’t resorted to murder, but were still here – his social peers.
It was insane to think that anyone would risk losing their freedom, committing the kind of crimes Harry did, just to end up at a place like Duffy’s.
Leslie ordered another beer off his long-suffering waitress and continued to take in the atmosphere. If he stood out, no one was saying anything or approaching him. A few ladies had tried to sit down and engage him in conversation, but he had quickly waved them away. Harry was at the bar with his skinny girl and a couple of other goons, all of them enjoying a beer and laughing it up. Harry was oblivious to the danger that lurked nearby.
Why shouldn’t he be? thought Leslie as he considered the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket. He probably thinks he’s the most dangerous man in the place. The Alpha Dog, so to speak.
Leslie had no idea how much time had passed before Harry finally left the bar. He had been nursing his third beer and losing his focus when he looked up and noticed Harry was no longer with his friends. A quick scan of the place and he saw the killer exiting the bar. Leslie got up from his booth, maybe a little too quickly to go unnoticed, and pushed his way through the bar and out the door.
The street hadn’t changed; still dark and downtrodden. Leslie looked in both directions. Harry was nowhere to be seen. It was like he had vanished into thin air.
Jesus, he thought, as he once again looked in both directions. He had no idea how he had disappeared so fast. All he knew was, with Ha
rry gone the night had been a waste of time; he’d accomplished nothing.
He couldn’t accept that. Leslie started down the street in the direction from which he had originally seen Harry approaching Duffy’s. He was probably heading home, maybe he could catch up to him.
Leslie was moving fast – too fast. It was that momentum and his desire to catch up with Harry that left him open to Harry’s attack. He’d gotten about a block up the street when Harry had suddenly stepped out of an alley, grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him into the alley. Leslie had been so intent on moving forward that he’d been taken completely by surprise, and Harry had him off balance. Using what momentum he had, Harry sent Leslie falling to the ground, crashing into an assortment of garbage cans that had been stored in the alley. The noise definitely broke the quiet of the night, but was probably going to be of no use to Leslie, as he figured nobody in a neighborhood like this was going to come and investigate. Anyone hearing the noise was probably beating a hasty retreat or checking to make sure their doors were locked.
Leslie was not a fighter. He’d never actually been in a fight before, not even as a youngster. Harry, however, well, violence was a daily way of life for him. Before Leslie could make any sense of what was happening, Harry was upon him, kicking him hard, knocking him backwards, even further into the alley. Leslie did his best to try and block the kicks, but Harry was hitting him with such speed and ferocity that all he could try to do was protect his head and roll away from the kicks, in an attempt to escape them, or at least not allow his attacker to hit him so completely – a glancing blow was preferable to some of the blows Harry was presently connecting with.
It seemed like he was rolling away forever, new pains introducing themselves to different parts of his body, before the beating Harry was administering finally came to a stop. As he tried to catch his breath – several of the blows had connected squarely with his stomach – Leslie could hear Harry also trying to catch his breath. He’d stopped his attack, Leslie figured, because he had tired himself out. If he’d been in better shape, Leslie would have been in big trouble. His only hope right now was that the physical activity of kicking the shit out of him was enough to give Harry, based on his age, a heart attack; definitely not a winning strategy.
Before Leslie could get complete control of his own breathing and pain, Harry reached down and grabbed him by the jacket, pulling him to his feet. Just as Leslie got at eye level, Harry head butted him. Leslie, whose feet had been just gaining control of themselves, buckled. Harry hadn’t let him go, however, electing to hold him steady at eye level. Leslie could see Harry was angry; he fought to maintain consciousness, sure that if he didn’t all would definitely be lost; although based on his performance so far, unconsciousness might be a better answer than his current predicament.
“You been eyeballin’ me all night, arsehole,” said Harry. “You got a problem with me, or just fuckin’ suicidal?”
So much for being inconspicuous, thought Leslie.
He let out a moan; that didn’t appear to please Harry.
“You walk into a bar like that? A stranger and you expect to go unnoticed, arsehole? You that stupid?”
“I...I...,” Leslie managed to utter. He knew he had to say something; he had to engage Harry in conversation, before Harry decided to just put him out of his misery. The problem was his mouth and mind was no longer working in concert with one another at that moment.
Not pleased with the course of their dialogue, Harry hauled off and punched Leslie in the face; this time he allowed him to fall to the ground in a heap. His feet were definitely as strong as jelly; he lay on the ground and through blurred vision watched Harry staring down at him. Probably surveying his victim and wondering where he should hurt him next.
Leslie was surprised he was still conscious. He had no idea he could take a beating like this and not pass out. It was either impressive or just bad luck. Doing the only thing he could think of, Leslie, fighting more pain than he ever imagined he could experience at one time, crawled a few feet away from Harry towards the back of the alley.
“There’s nowhere to go, pal,” said Harry, amused. Leslie, whose vision was getting somewhat better, could see Harry was enjoying this. This was probably part of what excited him; he was like a cat playing with a mouse, keeping him alive and toying with him, until it was finally time to deliver the killing blow. The fear he instilled in his victims was almost as good, if not better, than the actual moment of murder. Leslie could appreciate this – especially as a crime writer – if it weren’t for the fact that in this little game he was the mouse.
“Wait. WAIT!” said Leslie. Luckily his mind and mouth had formed an alliance and were at least attempting to work together. “I’m a reporter. The Examiner!”
“I don’t think I’ve ever killed a reporter before,” said Harry, unimpressed. “I hope you wrote your own obit before coming down here tonight.”
“I don’t mean you any harm,” said Leslie. He knew it sounded stupid the minute he said it, but what the hell, he was grasping at straws here.
Harry just laughed. “You, harm me?”
“I didn’t know how to approach you. I’m just doing some research, that’s all.”
“Sucks to be you, pal,” said Harry.
Harry started to advance. Leslie scrambled backwards, but he’d finally met the back wall of the alley and it wasn’t letting him go any further.
“WAIT! NO! I write books,” said Leslie. Ah, yes, he thought, the old, ‘I write books’ self-defense maneuver. Fucking brilliant!
“Crime novels. Fiction,” he said. “I’m harmless, really.”
Harry didn’t care. He reached down and grabbed Leslie by the jacket once again. Leslie tried to push him away, but he had nothing in him. He was like a rag doll in this killer’s hands. Harry pulled him to his feet. Leslie didn’t know what was coming next, but he knew he wouldn’t like it. This could be it.
“The Brannigan novels,” he said for no other reason except he thought he should say something, anything while his mouth still worked. “I’m Leslie Marshall; Dan Marshall’s my dad.”
Harry paused. Leslie could see he was just getting ready to slug him again, but stopped. Leslie, who had been anticipating a punch to the face, saw a curious look replace the one of anger on Harry’s face. Then Harry smiled, as he let Leslie go. Leslie managed to stay on his feet, and stumbled back a couple of steps, using the alley wall to help balance him.
“Leslie Marshall? Dan Marshall? Fuck me, MARSHALL,” said Harry. “Son-of-a-bitch if you don’t kinda look like him. Dan fuckin’ Marshall.”
Harry started laughing. Leslie just watched him, curious. He had no idea what he was going to do next. The gun was still in his jacket pocket, but somehow in all the beating, he had forgotten it was there. He wasn’t used to reaching for a weapon.
“Fuckin’ Leslie Marshall,” said Harry. “You’re the son-of-a-bitch that got away.”
chapter EIGHT
“ollie, OLLIE, out come free!”
Nothing.
“Ollie, Ollie, out come free, you little shit.”
Once again, nothing.
“Where the hell are you, you little bastard,” said Harry Madwin as he rummaged through the closet in one of the kid’s bedrooms at Dan Marshall’s house. It definitely looked like a ten-year-old’s bedroom, so where the hell was he?
“Maybe the little shit ain’t home,” said Sal Lunkin. “Check under the bed. Kids always hide under the bed. Lack imagination at that age.”
Harry did as Sal asked, got down on all fours and checked under the bed. He had to get low to see by the wooden sideboards that hung low and framed it, but as far as he could see, there was no one under it.
“Nothin’ under here,” he said.
“Shit. He ain’t home. Lucky bastard,” said Sal. “Let’s go.”
Sure they had combed the entire upstairs of the Marshall residence, Harry and Sal made their way downstairs, where the rest of the Marshall famil
y were waiting.
Cautious and listening carefully, young Leslie Marshall dropped to the floor from under his bed and quickly surveyed all around, looking to make sure there were no legs visible beside his bed. It had taken everything he had to hold on and stay quiet, but he had. He was terrified and didn’t want those men to find him. He knew as long as he stayed silent he’d be golden. He’d discovered this particular hiding place while playing hide and seek with his younger brother and sister. He’d discovered that the wood paneling that went around his bed, while allowing visibility under it, actually served to hide a person, if they simply grabbed a couple of the wooden slats that the box spring rested on and pulled themselves up, holding on for dear life. If you could hold that position long enough, anyone quickly looking under the bed, wouldn’t see you. Leslie had been proud of the spot; it made him feel like Houdini. Never had he considered though that he’d be hiding under circumstances like these.
It was close to dinner and his younger brother, Scott, only seven-years-old and his sister, Mary, only five-years-old, had all ready gone downstairs. He’d discovered earlier that his mother was making Shepherd’s Pie a meal he didn’t particularly enjoy. It wasn’t that he didn’t like all the things that comprised it, like potatoes, ground beef, peas, carrots and such, just that somehow when they were all put together they became something unlikeable to his particular palate. As such, he was in no hurry to get downstairs and start dinner; he knew it was going to be a long evening of him sitting at the table picking at his food and his parents telling him he wasn’t allowed to leave the table until he had cleaned his plate. He was about to do some hard time, and seeing how his parents wouldn’t let him and his brother and sister have a dog, he had no one to secretly feed his food to. It just wasn’t fair; as such he was in no hurry to go downstairs and start his sentence.
