Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

“Where we going?” he finally asked.

  “Charlie, you look like shit.”

  “We can’t all age as well as you.” He pulled back his receding hairline to reveal an Eddie Munster widow’s peak. He’d also begun to sport serious baloney patch. “You have more hair than you did in high school.” Before I could mention the drinking, that maybe he should ease up, he cut me off. “And spare me the ‘I drink too much’ crap.”

  “You do.”

  “In soda you.”

  “Huh?” I had a hard time understanding him through the slurring.

  “And. So. Do. You.”

  “I don’t drink as much as you do.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” He gazed out my truck window, at our hometown passing us by, the days we were losing. “You just have better—”

  “What? Luck?”

  “I was going to say genes. But, sure, luck, too.

  “What are you so pissy for?”

  “Beside you waking me up at the ass crack of day, dragging me out in the cold, and telling me how terrible I look?”

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon, man.”

  “What do I care? I was sleeping. Fisher’s practically living with me now, to help you out with . . . whatever the hell this is. Don’t ask me why. You hate his guts.”

  “I don’t hate his guts.”

  “Yeah, you do, Jay. You look down on everyone. Always have.”

  “Jesus. What crawled up your ass?”

  “Sorry. I’m hungover. I feel like shit. I think I’m depressed.”

  I wanted to ask what he was so depressed about, except I knew depression didn’t work like that, and even if it did, he had plenty of fucking reasons. He was single, undateable, an alcoholic living off workman’s comp, a once handsome man turned anything but, with a future bleaker than a northern New Hampshire winter. When I thought about it like that, I wondered how he hadn’t shot himself by now.

  I reached over and patted his shoulder.

  “Maybe it’s seasonal depression. Read about that the other day in some magazine. When I was at the dentist.” Charlie dug a tender thumb and forefinger around his craw, searching out the offending molar. “Damn things are rotting in my skull. Some people get depressed in the gray and cold.”

  I thought about pointing out that Lamentation Mountain was nothing but gray and cold. I decided to let him have his small victory.

  “We’ve driving out to the warehouse,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “Meeting Owen Eaton.” I didn’t need to go into it more than that. I’d brought Charlie along to avoid getting blindsided. If Owen had been behind Tom’s accident, it meant he’d been willing to kill, which meant he’d have no qualms adding one more body to the pile.

  Charlie kept fishing around his mouth, staring out the window. If I were a better friend, I’d check in more, urge him to keep it down to a six-pack a night. Like I did. Which reminded me of what my brother Chris used to say when I’d tell him to stick to beer.

  Oh, so it’s okay if I do the drugs you do.

  Maybe I was a hypocrite. I also understood Charlie better than anyone. Even if he gave up the bottle, what was he going to do? He’d had a long-time job at the phone company that got him out of bed every morning, but he was miserable. If Charlie Finn quit drinking, what else did he have? The Dubliner was his social scene, where all his friends were. He had no outside passions. He was lazy as fuck. If his mom hadn’t died, Charlie would still be living in that house. He’d just be living there with his mother.

  We turned past the Beckly Beer Garden, an old Ashton establishment where shitty bands used to play live, way out on the southwestern front. I’d snuck in there when I was a kid. Now the once white, sturdy structure had crumbled, turned brown, wet wood decayed beyond salvation. With all the snowfall, the roof had collapsed. The Beer Garden resembled an abstract sculpture, serving as postmodern commentary on a lost, simpler time when people didn’t ask so damn much out of life. But this wasn’t art. This was the town where we lived. There were a lot of buildings like that.

  Tom’s old warehouse, the one we were abandoning for the new space in Pittsfield, Everything Under the Sun, pushed town limits. Past Christian Lane, the complex was the closest thing we had to an industrial section in Ashton. I’d picked it as a meeting spot because I wanted to be on home turf. Also gave me time to grab backup, whip Charlie into fighting shape, but that plan had taken longer than expected, and now I had to wonder if I’d missed Owen altogether.

  Abandoned brick buildings populated the district, shattered glass, For Lease signs hanging in broken windows above tangles of weeds and broken pallets. Most of the mills had gone under, jobs and tradesmen moving west to Newington or one of those other faster-growing little big towns. This stretch represented an older Ashton, a more prosperous time in the flats, when businesses flourished and families wanted to be part of the community, not flee it, like when my dad was still alive. Now Ashton was an exit sign you passed on the Turnpike, maybe stopped for gas, grabbed a bite to eat, and then got the hell back on the road.

  I hadn’t been by the warehouse since Turley sent someone to check security in the wake of yesterday’s pod theft. A few cars and trucks were spread throughout the complex. There was a coil and furnace store still open, a take-out Chinese joint. I drove around back. We had a chain-link fence secured with a Magnum Master padlock for an added layer of protection. I hopped out of my Chevy, unshackled the lock, lifted the hitch and kicked up the latch.

  “What are we doing here?” Charlie asked when I climbed back in the cab.

  “I told you, man. Meeting Owen Eaton.”

  No response.

  “Runs the Clearing House?”

  Charlie stared clueless.

  “Guy from the auction Thanksgiving night?”

  Took him a moment. “The dirtbag who lowballed that other dude?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I didn’t mention the affair. At this point, given Charlie’s limited comprehensive abilities, he was on a need-to-know basis. “You hang here, okay?”

  I got out of the truck and made for the back of the warehouse.

  “Hey,” he called from the window. “Leave me a couple smokes.”

  I tossed him the pack, tugged on the heavy door, and went to key in the code on the pad, but the alarm wasn’t sounding. The door had been locked, and I’d seen the steel grate rolled down up front when I drove in. I hit the lights. Nothing. Storm must’ve knocked out the power. Didn’t impact security, which connected to a backup unit. Otherwise anyone could walk out with a king’s ransom whenever storms hobbled a grid. Which was all the time.

  Given the darkness, I wasn’t able to see much, not even my breath clouding in front of me. We didn’t waste money heating the place when no one was here, the warehouse emitting hockey-rink frosty. I reached for my cell to use the flashlight, realizing I’d left my phone in the truck’s console. Glancing around the showroom, eyes adjusting, everything appeared in order. The alarm not being active bugged me. I knew I had turned it on after the auction. If the sensors hadn’t been tripped, Dulac must’ve dropped in and forgotten to set it, which wasn’t like him. He seldom showed up in the winter anyway. Maybe Tom had made a pit stop on the way to sign the lease? Nothing rang true.

  I weaved through marble statues and grandfather clocks to hoist the roll-up gate. Without light, the warehouse so crammed, I banged my shin on a Formica countertop perched on its side. The sharp edge ripped a divot of flesh, like a drunken, wayward tee shot on 18. I was hopping like a spaz, twisted around, knocking into more shit.

  Headlights swept by the front window, a bright yellow flash. That’s when I caught sight of the arm slicing out of darkness. It wielded something long, heavy, and squared between my eyes. That fraction of a heads-up spelled the difference between a glancing blow and a trip to the ICU. Still clipped me good, but instead of splitting my skull, my collarbone caught the brunt. I braced for more. The next strike thwacked the
meaty part of my thigh, then the back of my knee. The glint of metal. Tire iron? Crowbar? What did it matter? The hits were coming too fast. Weapon raised, coiled, unleashed, driving down ferocious. Whoever was slinging lead was in front of me. I felt a fist drive into my kidney from behind. Normally a punch that precise, lodged below the rib cage, up in the gut, knocks the wind out and I’m down, but fight-or-flight adrenaline had kicked in, and instead of hitting the mat, I spun around and launched a blind haymaker, guessing where a face might be. I got lucky. I felt nose cartilage crack beneath the force of my knuckles. A guttural cry followed an animalistic howl, and I smelled the sweet, metallic tang of blood. Best punch I’d ever thrown. The prolonged wail mapped a clear path to a pair of balls, and I lined up the shot like an extra point attempt, splitting the uprights. Whoever it was, I’d broken their fucking nose, and with any luck, I’d ruptured their gonads, too. One-on-one, I stood a chance of surviving. I turned around in time to be pile-driven over an antique porcelain sink, spine impaled on a spigot. We tumbled to the cold ground, trading blows. I gave as good as I got, getting three or four clean shots to the face. But the man on top was too strong, and I was forced to cover up. Better to protect my face and get my forearms bruised than have my teeth knocked out. I didn’t have dental insurance either. He kept smashing my arms, fist after fist. Mutherfucker was tough, and young. Only a young man fights this hard. Even with defensive strategies and the thick padding of my new winter coat, I was taking a serious pummeling.

  By now, Charlie had heard the ruckus and come running in from around back, shouting my name.

  “Charlie! Over here!”

  The screaming stopped the assault, at least long enough for me to feel around for a weapon. Soon as I fingered density, I closed ranks and swung for the head. I connected with his neck. He fell off. I glanced down at the brass candlestick in my fist. I scrambled to my feet and ran toward Charlie’s voice. Dizzied and disoriented, everything moving so fast yet strangely slowed down, I crashed into a dinette set, getting all knotted up, tripping over a chair leg and eating concrete. I couldn’t see who was who, what was where, or what direction was up. Ten feet or so behind me, Charlie groaned. Pulling myself to my feet, I hobbled best I could through the maze. I found my friend rolling on the floor, clutching his knee. He’d be okay. I took off after the intruders. With both legs now compromised, unable to bend joints, I couldn’t run, toddling after the bad men like Frankenstein’s Monster.

  By the time I got to the back door, whoever they were had disappeared into the woods.

  EMTs tended to my injuries while Turley and his men canvassed the warehouse. The power, which had been cut, was now back on. I’d pulled a similar stunt three years ago, slicing the phone line with a steak knife before fleeing police.

  The medics bandaged me up. Nothing too serious. Nothing broken at least. Welts, scrapes, cuts, bruises, which had been listed on the official report as “deep contusions.”

  I’d gingerly slipped back into my winter coat when I saw Turley amble toward me.

  He had his little policeman pad out, pencil poised, questions at the ready.

  “Any idea who could’ve done this?”

  “Yeah. Owen Eaton.”

  Charlie, who had wandered off to the woods’ edge, glanced back, the way people do when they want to eavesdrop. Except I knew Charlie didn’t have any opinions on the subject. He was counting the minutes to happy hour.

  “What makes you think Owen Eaton had anything to do with this?”

  “Because I caught him at Tom Gable’s house.”

  Turley waited for me to add two and two for him.

  “To see Freddie,” I said. “He had flowers.” I waited. “They were alone. They went in the house. Together. Closed the door. It was dark. You following yet?”

  “Are you telling me—”

  “I’m telling you what I saw.”

  “How did Owen know you’d be at the warehouse?”

  “Because I left him a note.”

  “When?”

  “Before I picked up Charlie. I said I knew what he was up to and to meet me here.”

  “Jesus, Jay.”

  “What?”

  “Sorta egged him on, no?”

  “How the fuck is this my fault? He’s the one sticking it in Freddie Gable while her husband’s laid up in the hospital. Owen’s probably the one who put him there.”

  “You think Owen Eaton is capable of besting a man Tom Gable’s size?”

  “Then he hired someone else to do it. How much more proof you need, Turley? Owen wants the company, he’s fucking Tom’s wife—Christ, do I need to spell it out for you in crayon? Put it in a box, wrap it up with a little pink bow?”

  “I’ll admit it looks suspicious, but it’s also circumstantial.”

  “So is blaming me for Tom’s attack. Because of a stupid rumor my dead brother caused our parents’ car crash twenty years ago. You had no problem with that, though, did you? Ran with that just fine.”

  “Nobody ran with anything, Jay. Were you arrested?”

  “You told me not to leave town.”

  “And did you listen?” Turley turned around and called out to Charlie. “Hey, Finn, you get a look at any faces?”

  Charlie shook his head. “It was dark. Not a lot of room to move. I heard Jay hollering. I ran in and someone whacked me on the knee on their way out.” He tried to rub where the EMT had treated the joint but Charlie wasn’t able to bend that low.

  “Hey, Chief?” one of the patrolmen shouted. “Got someone here wants to talk to you. Says he was supposed to meet one of the vics.”

  I burst through feeble attempts to restrain me, hobbling fast as I could to the gate, Turley calling, trotting after me. Charlie lumbering after him. With the beating and blows, the lingering nerve damage in my leg, I wasn’t sprinting to the finish line. Then again, Turley and Charlie were both out of shape. The three of us trying to race mimicked those giant sausages in-between innings at minor league baseball games.

  The patrolman had already let Owen Eaton through.

  I wedged past the cop and shoved Owen into the fence. “Fucking cocksucker.”

  Owen remained in place, shocked by the reception. What did he expect? A wet willie and noogie? Asshole had tried to lay me out.

  Turley wrapped me in a bear hug from behind, hoisting me off. I relaxed long enough for him to let me go. I lunged for Owen’s throat but came up short. The cops caught me by the collar, holding me back. I swung around them, rabid, a mad dog lashing on the leash.

  “What’s his problem?” Owen was talking to Turley, as though I were beyond reason.

  “Like you don’t know.” I’d already stopped fighting, throwing up my hands, letting Turley and his boy know I was done with the red-ass routine.

  “Someone broke into the warehouse,” Turley said. “Jumped Jay and Finn here.”

  Now Owen addressed me. “And you think I had something to do with that?”

  “You knew I was going to be here.”

  Owen whipped the note from his back pocket. “Because you left this on my windshield.” The letter was wet and falling apart. “Took me ten minutes to figure out what the damn thing even said.”

  Turley plucked the paper from his hand, squinted to read the message. The ink had run like a Rorschach test. “What’d it say?”

  “‘I know what you’re doing. Meet me at Tom’s warehouse. Or I go to the police.’” Owen stared at me, an expression blending annoyance and pity with a touch of fear. I’d already told Turley what I’d written but hearing it played back sounded worse.

  The stress was getting to me. I could feel anger surging, overpowering capillaries, bursting tiny vessels. My temples pounded out a discordant beat on my eardrums.

  “Where were you when you found that note?” Turley asked.

  “At Tom Gable’s house. I brought Freddie a bouquet of flowers.”

  “What kind of flowers?”

  “Carnations and daisies. To offer my sympathies.�
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  “I’m sure that’s why you went inside.”

  “She asked if I wanted some coffee, Jay. Is that a crime? What are you doing? Following me?”

  “I saw you on the road, on your way to Tom’s.”

  “What do you think I was doin’? Stealing the company from under you? Sweet-talkin’ Freddie Gable while Tom is in the hospital to get a better deal? How big a jerk do you think I am?”

  Either this guy was the world’s best salesman or I’d seriously jumped the gun. He wasn’t even addressing accusations of an affair. His mind went straight to business. Still, the timing was too convenient.

  “You were the only one who knew I’d be at the warehouse,” I said.

  “I’m not a cop,” Owen said, “but ever cross your mind that if someone wanted to rob you and Tom, they’d be counting on you not being here?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AFTER DROPPING CHARLIE at the Dubliner, I swung by the pharmacy to pick up my prescription, before returning to my apartment to chew on this. If I was wrong about Owen having an affair with Freddie—and my suspicions suddenly weren’t looking good—my quick-fix solution had gotten a lot more complicated. I was back to Vin Biscoglio and a phantom offer made on a snowy night.

  The problem was Vin Biscoglio didn’t exist. At least in no verifiable form. I’d abandoned calling the bogus number he’d left me. I didn’t possess the greatest electronic acumen, but I had a few tools at my disposal. Meaning I could type a name into a search engine and hit enter like anyone else. I dragged my case of beer to my computer and hunkered down.

  There was no listing of Biscoglio on the Crowder Steel website, no social media or e-mail address, none that I could find anyway. I shied away from digital platforms. I was just a good ol’ shit-kicking country boy. Biscoglio hailed from the big city, employed by a hotshot CEO, high profile all the way. Yet, not a trace in cyberspace. The man existed in the ether, a cypher. I did an image search, hoping to find a picture of him at a fundraiser or charity banquet. Even a blurry pic of a stocky bald guy would’ve constituted victory at this point. If Lombardi or Tomassi handled most of the construction projects around here, Crowder Steel supplied the building blocks. Their products were used in everything. Hospitals, bridges, airports. Countless webpages featured Crowder Steel events. Just none with the bald man who knocked on my door at midnight and started all this shit.