Once back in the cab of the flatbed, he maneuvered the truck away from the pick up with difficulty. The black Chevy had been jammed against and under the flatbed from its impact with the abutment, causing the larger truck’s outer left rear tire to rupture. It took three attempts at backing up and pulling forward before the trucks disengaged. While picking up speed, he watched in the rear view mirror as lights approached and a car pulled to the right hand side of the roadway back at the “wreck”. Another car was approaching him in the opposite lane on the other side of the guardrail. The faster the truck ran the louder the deflated rear tire thumped against the frame until it disintegrated and was finally tossed off the rim.
Surprisingly, he didn’t experience the giddy, emotional, high and low feelings he had gotten when he had accidentally killed the Loudmouth attacker. He was actually calmer than before killing O’Neil. There wasn’t a particularly good feeling about what he had done, but yet a sense justification His feelings reminded him of the punch line of a joke he had heard about a valid defense for murder cases in Texas: he needed killing. He speculated the three weeks spent planning the hit down to the finite details had conditioned him to what was coming, and left him without a high degree of emotion in the act. He was having some problem keeping the up close and personal images of Jerry O’Neil in his final minutes of life out of his mind. He wondered if the visual images and the screams would stay with him forever, or if they too would fade and finally dissipate after enough time. He hoped so, because right then, they were extremely vivid and very, very loud.
At the quarry entrance, he drove the truck onto the gravel road and once again wrapped the chain around the gates to hold them closed. Up at the point where the fence had been cut, the truck was maneuvered across the roadway, facing toward the quarry pit.
The shotgun was removed from the cab and tied to the dirt bike with the towels still taped around it. From the box left with the bike earlier, a large plastic bowl with a flat lid was removed and filled with gasoline from the metal can. The plastic bowl, and what remained in the two gallon gas can were placed in the cab on the passenger’s side of the seat; the cardboard box was put in the driver’s seat. A 2” x 4” x 8’ long wood stud was removed from the bed, inserted through both windows and wired to the steering wheel to hold it in position. With the hood raised and the help of a flashlight Clay located the throttle lever, stretching a wire from it to a solid tie-off point. As the engine speed was increased from idle to about two thousand RPM, the wire was secured to maintain the speed.
The bike was moved to the middle of the gravel road, kick started, and left idling ready for his escape.
Three sparklers left over from some previous Fourth of July were lit and stuck through the fabric along the top of the back seat cushion. After checking to assure himself all was ready, Clay reached in the driver’s window and moved the shift lever from park, down to drive. The big truck lurched; the engine spit several times, but didn’t die as it picked up the load. Having jumped off the side of the door step, Clay watched as the truck picked up speed, rumbling toward the cliff. When the front wheels rolled over the edge, the chassis dropped onto the dirt; the momentum it had built up carried it past the fulcrum point until the front end slowly began to tip. Then, the rest of the truck slid across the soft dirt at the rim. The rear tires hung up for a split second on the layer of stone below the dirt cover before giving up their tenuous grip. Before the end of the bed went out of sight the entire pit was lit up with a dull orange glow; the gasoline had slid off the seat, spilled and ignited from the flame of the sparklers. Several moments later a subdued crunching and tearing of metal lasted about three seconds. Then another orange glow again lit up the huge and deep quarry as the diesel tank ruptured, lost its full load of fuel, and ignited.
After pulling on a light weight jacket he straddled the bike; it would feel good before the ride was completed. He put the pistol in the right pocket, and then put the bike in gear and headed for the escape exit. The engine was running like it was new as he began the trip out of the quarry back to Jimmy’s house. The air was cool but he was hot and sweaty from the fast paced activities of the last fifteen minutes in addition to the adrenaline rush experienced back at the overpass. Clay thought of the two dead men he had been involved with over the last several months and the irony of life. He had never intended to be part of the criminal element; he had no desire to follow Jimmy and Tony’s lives. His role had been that of an onlooker, an outsider who lived on the fringe of their world, but with ties and personal connections to its roots. Now circumstances had placed him at the outer perimeter of a whirlpool and forces were pulling him toward the vortex. Where the spinning mass would take him he had no clear vision; and he dared not guess at this point. What he did know was he had consciously chosen to change his life forever, and now it was too late to turn back.
In the middle of a bridge over a small river Clay stopped the bike in the narrow right shoulder lane at the center span. He waited until there were no cars approaching from either direction to remove the pistol from his jacket pocket. After wiping the pistol frame clean, he flung it over the railing into the murky waters, listening as it broke the surface fifty feet below.
After turning the corner half a block away from Jimmy’s house he killed the engine and pushed the light weight bike back to the garage. By the light of the neighbors dusk to dawn lighting he maneuvered from the garage through the house to put the shot gun back in the closet where Jimmy had kept it, after wiping it down as a precaution. Clay took the towels from the shotgun and the second hand clothing he had bought and put them in a brown paper grocery bag. While putting his own clothing back on he took a last look at his friends belongings and before leaving said aloud, “Good by Jimmy G.; I miss you”. After locking the garage door he walked up the street to where he had parked his car in the next block, got in, and drove to a small shopping mall where he deposited the used clothing in a dumpster. Leaving the mall, he continued home, not all sure he could sleep, even though his body and mind felt drained of energy.
When he slipped between the sheets he immediately began to unwind. Then, out of the tangled visual and audio images of the less than two minutes it took to end a life, he again saw clearly the smug gloating look he perceived seeping through the terror O’Neil was experiencing. He relived O’Neil spitting out the accusation “Then we're alike. You’re nothing but a damn cowardly assassin.” The words hit him with such impact that his stomach muscles contracted involuntarily and he gasped out loud as he struggled to get a fresh breath into his lungs. The expression of disgust and loathing directed at him caused him to cringe from his self proclaimed role of avenger. Why hadn’t he fought O’Neil one on one, man to man? Why? It was simple; because he wasn’t sure he would win. His objective from the start had been revenge: murder. O’Neil had been tried, convicted and sentenced in the court of Albrecht. But he hadn’t anticipated the accusation hurled at him by his victim; or its impact on his conscience. As if he still had a conscience. When exhaustion finally let him drift off to an uneasy sleep he continued to spar in his nightmare with the shadowy image of the late Jerry O’Neil.
He got up at ten thirty to shower, shave and dress. In the kitchen he fixed a late breakfast of sausage and egg’s while warming some pancakes left over from the families earlier breakfast. He was also thinking about what to do next. He decided against telling Tony what had happened until later. The police would find O’Neil’s death was certainly not an accident after an autopsy was performed. During the police investigation O’Neil’s friends, family and co-workers would likely be interrogated. Those conversations would lead them to the connection with Jimmy’s death, and probably to Tony. Tony would be better off at this point to be ignorant of any of the details concerning O’Neil’s death. The police would find the link to Tony and take him in for questioning. He had been interrogated many times and could likely handle it better if he wasn’t already informed of O’Neil’s connection to Jimmy’s death. The
look in his eyes and the expression on his face would be genuine surprise as the police lay out their assembled evidence and suspicions of O’Neil’s connection to Jimmy’s death. The police wouldn’t believe him, but would have no evidence to prove their suspicions.
His mother came in from the living room where she had been reading the Sunday morning news paper saying “Walt and I certainly haven’t seen much of you lately. What have you been up to these past several days?” Before he could answer she continued, “Maria’s bringing the kids down for a few days next week. I do hope you’ll be around to visit with them. I know the two of them create a ruckus, but they really like their Uncle Clayton and are looking forward to seeing you.”
Clay was at the stove and said over his shoulder “I’ll be around Mom. I plan to go over to the union hall tomorrow and sign up to go back to work. Even though I don’t have much seniority there may be something open. I’ve come to terms with my feelings about the loss of Jimmy and I’ll just have to go on, although he was the best friend I ever had and I’ll never forget him.”
Walt came in to get a glass of iced tea, said “Hi Clayton” and went back to finish whatever he was watching on the television. Margaret came around the table to give him a hug and whispered in his ear “It's sad Jimmy never got to know just how good a friend he had in you, but I know and I think you’re wonderful.” Clay didn’t want to speculate on how wonderful his mother would think he was if she knew about his vigilante action in the name of friendship.
Margaret went back to the living room and picked up the travel section of the paper she had been reading. But, instead of going back to her reading she sat and thought about Clayton.
He had lettered in football, making the starting squad. She often wished he had been as interested in studying and making good grades as he was in playing sports. He had passed and been advanced each year but had never excelled in any of his studies. She was glad he wasn’t a pretty boy, they often turned out to be shallow and without character. While Clayton had passed through his teenage years his complexion had cleared and the occasional pimples he had endured ceased to appear. His face was rather square, with brown eyes set far apart, which fit his stocky frame. His nose was full but not too broad. His hands were large, with long fingers, and were attached to thick wrist and muscular forearms.
In step with the times he wore his dark brown hair fairly long though high school and then right after graduation decided on his own to have Walter cut it shorter.
During his high school years she had implored Clayton to prepare for collage. But, he was only interested in getting a job right out of high school. Walter even offered to pay for him to attend barbers collage and upon graduation work in Walter’s shop, which he had expanded to eight chairs.
Clayton however decided to make use of an offer from Jimmy who said his dad could get both of them into the laborers union. He and Jimmy had been working on construction until Jimmy’s death. It wasn’t what she had hoped he would accomplish, but it was honest work.
After supper two days later, Walter was reading the evening paper and pointed out to Margaret a front page article stating the death of Jimmy Giliano may not have been an accident. There had been several altercations between him and a man who witnesses said had claimed to have killed Giliano. The man, identified as Jerry O’Neil, had been brutally murdered two nights earlier while on his way home. The murder had the marking of a professional revenge killing due to the brutal way the man was killed. The police had taken Tony Giliano in for questioning but had released him due to lack of any evidence connecting him to the crime. The investigation was on going, but the District Attorney stated at present there were no clues or suspects in the killing.
Walter snorted and said, "No clues or suspects? We all know who had him killed, Gilliano did, and it's not his first murder."
Chapter 5
One month after the episode with Jerry O’Neil, when he was sure Tony would be at the bar, Clay drove there on a Saturday morning. At ten o’clock business was slow and only John and five paying customers were up front. Tony was in the back at the round table with two of his men reading the newspaper and having a cup of coffee. Clay caught Tony’s eye and nodded in acknowledgement as he strode over to he bar after entering through the back door. He ordered a Stag draft beer, and after shooting the breeze with John and several of the other customers, walked over to the table where Tony was sitting.
“Hi Tony’ how’s business?”
Before Tony could answer Clay spoke to Milo Farrino, “Milo, you’d better quit eating so much pasta, you’re getting fatter than a hog.” As Clay winked at Nicky the Greek, Milo retorted while grinning, “Go fuck yourself you fucking skinny little Krauthead.”
Tony looked up and smiled, glad to see someone who gave him a link to Jimmy G. He was missing the close relationship he had come to count on with his youngest son.
“Hi Clay, business is business. What are you up to today?”
“Well, actually I came to talk to you. Do you have time to go upstairs?”
Tony’s face got a perplexed look but he said “Sure thing”, rose from his chair and headed for the bar. “John, me and the kid will be upstairs, no visitors.”
Tony led the way upstairs to his office. Both men took chairs at the table ninety degrees apart.
“Well, what is it kid? Need a loan, or got a problem you need help with?”
Clay had thought about how to tell Tony what he wanted to say, but somehow when the time finally came it seemed best to just say it. “Tony I need to clear up something between me and you about Jimmy’s death. I know from talking to you the last couple of times you were shocked to learn from the police his death wasn’t an accident, and you still don’t know who took care of Jerry O’Neil.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, I know who killed him.”
“Clay, you’re telling me you know who bumped O’Neil off?” Tony was leaning forward with an incredibly surprised, and yet dubious expression. “How the hell would you know it, and me not have gotten the word from somebody in my bunch first?”
“Because they don’t know anything about it; I took care of it myself, just like Jimmy would have done for me if the situation was reversed.”
Tony rose from the table and crossed the room to his desk and took a bottle of premium bourbon whiskey from a bottom drawer. Picking up two ten ounce glasses he paused to look at Clay with a quizzical look, and then took his seat at the table.
“You’re telling me you, a kid who only shot cats and rabbits before this, pulled off a hit any professional would be proud of? And got away clean with it? Huh?”
“Yeah, I’m telling you I did it.”
While pouring both glasses half full with Woodford Reserve he said “You wouldn’t shit old Tony about something this important, especially when it’s about Jimmy. You wouldn’t, would you Clay?”
“No sir, I wouldn’t. Jimmy was my best friend and I knew you’d go crazy if you got word somebody killed him. So I took care of it myself. I didn’t tell you before because I figured the police would end up questioning you, and probably some of your guy’s. I thought all of you would be better off if you really didn’t know anything about it.”
“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch!” Tony exclaimed and threw down a double shot. You! You did it! Who helped you? Which one of my guys helped you and didn’t tell me?”
“Nobody helped me; I planned it out and did it myself”
“No shit! How did you know you could go through with it when it came time to pull the trigger and really clip the guy?” Tony still seemed dubious of what he was hearing.
“Because it was for Jimmy; I couldn’t let our friendship down by turning chicken at the last minute. The other reason was something I didn’t even tell Jimmy about. Three weeks before Jimmy was killed some guy tried to bash my head in with a brick. I‘d stopped for a beer at a bar this side of Zion and some guy attacked me from behind. We fought in the parking lot and he wound up wit
h his head caved in. I was sick to my stomach about it, but I got over it.”
“Kid, tell me all about it, how you whacked O’Neil. I want to know all the details about how the rotten bastard got it.”
Clay told Tony the whole story of how he had stalked his target, with Tony stopping him frequently for additional details. When Clay came to the part where he had burned and then shot O’Neil, Tony closed his eyes and had him repeat it three times, getting a perverse pleasure at hearing the account.
Tony’s only comment was “You should have let the cocksucker burn.”
After pulling a handkerchief from his right back pocket Tony rubbed his eyes, and then stood up. Clay stood up too, and unexpectedly Tony wrapped his arms around him and gave him a big long hug. Softly the big man said “Thanks Clay, I owe you. If there’s anything, and I do mean anything, you need or want you let me know and I’ll make it happen. And if anybody ever gives you any shit about anything, just come and see me.”
Tony pushed Clay away abruptly, turned, pulled his chair away from the table, sat down, and motioned for Clay to set back down too. Tony leaned forward to refill their drinks and then spoke.
“I’m sure you knew Jimmy was planning to start coming into the business and wanted to take over eventually. I would have been proud to have him with me. He was smarter than his old man, and would have done well for himself. I didn’t think you had what it takes to be in this business, but I was wrong. You surely don’t want to be a laborer all your life, so how about if I start you out, and teach you how to run things?
“I don’t really think I’m cut out for this. I appreciate your offer; and I do fully understand what you’re offering me. But I just don’t think it’s what I want. I’m not a ‘tough guy’ and frankly, I don’t want to spend my life trying to keep guys like Joey in line.”
Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy Page 4
