by ed. Pela Via
“The safe’s in the office. I’ll give you whatever you want.” The bartender slid across the back bar to a door that led to the office.
“Hold it there, partner.”
The bartender stopped dead in his tracks, his arms jolted up.
“I don’t want the rolled up coins and petty cash you got in the safe in the office. I want the money you keep in the safe behind the painting.” The man pointed the barrel at the bartender’s head. “Open that safe.”
“How did . . .”
The driveway bell at the gas station across the street rang twice in the distance as a car pulled up to the pump. The neon sign hanging in the front window of the bar blinked in schizophrenic pulses.
The bartender felt uneasy in his skin as if the inner coating of his flesh was lined with coarse wool. No one knew about that safe, not even his wife. But that was the least of his worries. If the man knew about the safe, what else did he know? And did he tell anyone? No one knew the secrets the bartender kept. The type of secrets that got you two Jack Bennys for the price of one or an all night thigh-hugger if cold hard cash was in hand. He never confided in his friends, neighbors, or pastor. He sinned to keep his sins hidden, or so he thought.
There were many late nights when Missy let that soda bottle figure breathe on the couch in the back office. The bartender stared at her like she was a cherry car. Sometimes she let him take photographs.
The bartender wanted Missy to stay longer, but time was money and he had to pay extra. When he refused, she got angry. But he didn’t care about some floozy. What was she going to do, go to the cops? Not likely.
The bartender turned around and grabbed the gilded edges of the gold frame and pulled it open. The safe was recessed in the brick wall.
The bartender told his customers the portrait was of an ancestor that was a duchess. The truth was the painting had been hanging on the wall long before the bartender purchased the tavern.
The bartender opened the safe. Photographs rested on top of the stacks of hundred dollar bills.
“She’s a whore and will always be a whore,” he said.
Bright flashes lit up the room. Glass bottles exploded like a carnival game. The bartender’s life trickled down the floor drain along with his sins.
“Nobody calls my girl a whore,” the man said, and ran out of the bar.
———
The man was sleeping one off. He was woken up by banging on the door. His head rose off the floor. A string of saliva dangled at the corner of his mouth. He placed both hands on the side of his head, suctioning them against his ears to make the high-pitched siren he thought he heard fade.
The door was kicked off its hinges. Two officers appeared with their guns drawn. The man used his hand to cover his eyes from the bright sunlight.
There were crumpled up beer cans surrounding the man and an empty bottle of booze knocked over on the ground.
The officers put their pistols away and knelt over the man and got him to his feet. They held onto his arms and shoulders until he had the strength to stand on his own.
“You have the right to remain silent . . . blah, blah, blah,” was all the man heard as he was dragged outside.
His rundown bungalow faced a scrap metal yard. Living amongst the broken down machinery and abandoned cars was a junkyard dog. It jumped up on its hind legs and into the fence, barking terror threats at the police cruiser.
“Shut that damn mutt up!” The man made an attempt to approach the dog, but the officers had a good grip on his arms. They placed him inside the cruiser. He stared at the dog as it barked and showed its teeth. Drool dripped from the corners of its sweaty mouth.
“Shut up, you stupid mutt.”
“Quiet down back there,” said an officer.
The man wished he would’ve done one last thing after returning from the bar, and that was to shoot that damn mutt and put it down for good. Then he would’ve been able to get a better night’s rest.
———
The prosecutor called on his witness. A young man approached the stand wearing a suit borrowed from his father’s closet. It hung wide and loose on his still growing frame. He made a brief pass at the defendant, but the man was unable to recognize him.
The bailiff appeared with the good book in his hand. The young boy rested his shaky palm on top of it.
“You swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth so help you God?”
“I aim to, yes, sir.”
The bailiff returned to his post. The counselor rose to his feet. “State your name and what your current occupation is for the record.”
“My name is Henry Cole and I’m currently employed as a gas station attendant over there on Laurel and Beech. Been that way for a good two years or so.”
“And can you tell the jury what you saw that night, young Henry?”
“Yes, sir, I can.”
That night Henry was seated inside the gas station reading a Doc Savage yarn from off the magazine rack. A car drove up to the pumps. The service bell rang. Henry stepped outside and filled up the man’s gas tank.
When the car drove off he heard multiple pops that sounded like a pack of black cats exploding in a garbage can. When he turned around he saw the man exit the bar, run to his car, and fish tail it out of the parking lot.
“Who is ‘the man’ you are referring to, Henry?”
Henry pointed at the man seated across the courtroom.
“Henry, please explain to the jury what you did next.”
Henry hid behind the gas pump until the man’s car disappeared into the night. Then he got up and ran across the street. When he walked into the bar he found the bartender dead. He also discovered a safe hidden behind a painting and when he looked inside it was empty.
“Thank you for your testimony, Henry.”
Henry nodded.
“No further questions, your honor.” The prosecutor sat back down.
The judge looked over at the public defender. “Counselor, your witness.”
The man’s attorney was hidden behind stacks of folders that pertained to sorry chaps that couldn’t afford proper representation. The public defender was an overworked man and didn’t know one defendant from the next. They all seemed to blur into one stupid criminal he tried, day after day, to set free.
The public defender rose from his chair. He looked over the man’s file. “I have no questions, your honor.”
The man turned to his lawyer in awe. He stood up on his own behalf. “I’d like to ask the boy some questions if that’d be all right with you, judge.”
The judge turned to the stenographer. “Let the record show I heard the defendant’s request and have denied him the opportunity to question the young man.”
The stenographer typed feverishly.
The judge turned to Henry. “You may step down, son.”
The man watched Henry approach the door. Henry stopped at the last row of benches and assisted a woman to her feet. The woman wore a black shawl and cat-eye sunglasses and it appeared she was trying to conceal her identity, but she wasn’t fooling anyone, especially the man.
———
Missy handed the man a disposable razor. “Shave my legs, sweetie?”
She kicked out her leg and placed it on the rim of the tub. Water dripped onto the cracked bathroom tiles.
The man dipped the blade into the warm water, then scraped the blade across his cheek to make sure it was sharp.
“You know, sweetie, I was never meant to do the nine-to-five grind like the average Dick and Jane. I have ambitions and dreams like those classy dames I’m always reading about at the grocery store, ya know?”
The man was shaving her inner thigh, carefully pressing the blade against her supple skin. It sounded like fine sandpaper polishing a stone.
“Now, sweetie, you know I love you, right?”
The man washed off the tiny hairs. Steam rose over the bathtub.
“And I hate to be a burden,” she con
tinued, “but someone owes me some money. I wouldn’t bother to bring it up if it was just a few Georgies, but it’s actually a lot of money and I believe the bartender is tryin’ to put one over on me.”
The man worked over her knee and down to her calf muscle, concentrating on the right amount of pressure to use so he wouldn’t cut her.
“But you know me, sweetie. I don’t jump off the handle over foolish things. You know if I didn’t think it was important I wouldn’t bring it up. But it is, at least to me. And I think for principles’ sake it should be important to you too.”
The man felt like a doctor, shaving the area and prepping it before surgery. He saw it done once before at the hospital when he was a teenager and his brother broke his leg after falling out of the crab apple tree in front of their home.
“Will you do it, sweetie?”
He knew if he didn’t she’d find someone else who would. He had no choice, or at least that was how he saw it.
He cleaned the blade and began shaving her other leg.
———
The bulls appeared by the man’s side. “It’s time.”
The man stood up and turned around. He was handcuffed and led out of his cell.
The man knew Missy was there that night waiting with Henry at the gas station. Their plan was to sneak up on the man, kill him, and steal the bartender’s money. Then place the loaded gun in the man’s hand and place another gun in the bartender’s hand and let the cops sort out the rest. What they didn’t anticipate was the man walking out with nothing. When he drove off, Missy realized they had to come up with a new plan, so that was what they did, or so the man thought.
The man was led to an abandoned warehouse that once served as the prison’s death house back in the 1920s. Twenty-four cells once housed men on death row. Some claimed they could hear inmates scream as they fried on the electric chair. But nothing was confirmed.
At the end of the warehouse was a large curtain serving as a partition. On the other side was a chair surrounded by sand bags. The area was brightly lit by two camera spotlights. Reporters stood at the end of the partition and wrote in small notepads.
The bulls placed the man in the chair. They grabbed the leather straps and locked in his arms, legs, and chest. Two straps secured his shoulders. One last strap was placed over his forehead. The man took in several breaths and his eyes grew as he stared at the wall in front of him that had gun ports carved into it. Five officers stood behind each gun port and held onto .30-caliber Winchester rifles. One of the rifles had a blank bullet loaded inside the chamber. The officers did not know which gun it was.
“Any last words, son?” The warden was a big thick cut of concrete with a very well trimmed moustache.
The man tried to move his head to look at the warden but couldn’t do so. “Let’s do it.”
The reporters scribbled in their notepads.
The warden nodded. He turned around and snapped his fingers to grab an officer’s attention. The reporters quietly walked off into the shadows. The officer flagged his arms out and looked like he was directing cattle into the byre as he led the reporters outside.
A pastor appeared from out of the same shadows and stood next to the man. He held onto a worn copyof the Bible. “Would you like a specific passage read, my son?”
Sweat slowly slid down from the man’s hairline and collected into the leather strap. “Not one in particular, pastor. I reckon whatever passage you see fit to read for the circumstance is fine by me.”
The pastor nodded. He began to read aloud. The officers removed their hats. The warden bowed his head. When the pastor said “Amen” so did the men in the room.
“God be with you,” were the last words said to the man.
An officer approached the man and placed a black hood over his head. Another officer affixed a cloth bullseye over the man’s heart.
The warden nodded to the officers behind the gun ports. They took their positions aiming their rifles at the man. The warden had instructions on when the men should fire.
“Five, four, three, two . . .”
The officers fired their rifles. It sounded like the ten second warning claps you heard during a boxing match to signal the end of the round.
The man’s forearms tensed. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair. His head shook frantically as the bullets pierced the bullseye.
After a few seconds his arms went limp. His head dropped into his chest. A pool of blood began to soak through his blue jump suit.
A medic approached the man once the smoke from the rifles cleared. He placed the end of the stethoscope against the man’s chest. He looked over at the warden and nodded.
——————————
The Liberation of Edward Kellor
by Anthony David Jacques
The moon is full on the horizon, full and dancing along the top of every gentle wave. Three feet above the low tide mark the rug doesn’t move.
The hands of the watch glide silently over the Greek key pattern in red and gold. The time reads 10:52 a.m. His silent protest these seven years, but no one ever looked that close. She always made sure he wore the watch because she bought it to make him appear distinguished.
The rock he sits on is half submerged and worn smooth, and he takes off his shoes. His jacket lies crumpled behind them and he has to fight the compulsion to fold it in half and then in half again. Stepping out onto the darker sand the ocean water wells up from within each successive footprint.
The moon is full in every watery footprint and in the distance the seagulls sleep along the pier. His slacks are getting wet and losing their crease. The waves wash over his path once, twice, and the third time it’s like he was never there.
The sand washes from underneath his feet and he imagines some of it swirling up and settling into the cuff, and when he looks over, the waves have reached the end of the rug. He imagines the waves are slowly pulling the fabric down, washing the sand from underneath with each regress. He imagines little granules creeping in between the fibers.
The reverse image of the red and gold key pattern is soaking up the seawater. The pattern that matches the drapes and offsets the couch and loveseat. Matches the pattern beneath the pretentious Roman numerals on the face of the watch.
There are no clouds tonight. The sky is deep and infinite and the wet sand glistens like the stars and with his bare feet he’s standing on top of the universe.
He glances up to the road every few minutes, but nothing changes. No one comes out at night in the winter.
His calves feel strange with every icy wave that pulls away and while he’s still thinking about this, the rug starts to move. Are his knots straight and evenly spaced? Are they tight? And he hates himself for thinking it, but he wonders, maybe he should have cleaned the rug one last time.
When he tries to step up and out of the sand he falters. His palm hits the wet beach and then the water rushes up past his wrist, over the watch. He waits for another wave to rinse off the excess sand, then walks back to the rock. The watch is not waterproof so there’s water under the face.
His feet are close enough that if he wanted to, he could prop them up on the rug and recline in the space between two shoulder high boulders. But he can’t.
———
No feet on the furniture. No shoes on the rug. No beer in the formal living room. Then no beer in the house, so why don’t we get a refrigerator for the garage? Those pants need to be ironed and where’s your watch?
You look ridiculous.
The rug moves again as the lower half begins to slump downward where the sand is disappearing beneath, and it sounds like a seagull at first but the pier is to the west and none of the birds are stirring. The sound is too close and he needs some distance.
———
When he gets back from the car the water is three-quarters of the way up the rug and the knots still look solid. But there is noticeable movement.
He thinks about how he’s never had a flat tir
e, though he’s helped change one or two like a Good Samaritan, but never with his own tire iron. It smells like the grease on the scissor jack and the rubber of the spare tire, and the weight feels good in his hand. Solid. Significant.
He raises his arm and in that perfect nothing moment, the space between lifting up and crashing down, the moon and every last star reflects full and bright in the face of the watch.
The rug gives under the weight of the tire iron, and he bears down with all his strength once, twice, and the third time he finds the muffled, hollow crack he’s looking for. He imagines that the red and gold key pattern is turning mostly red now, but it looks perfectly black in the moonlight, and the black spreads slowly as the waves reach higher.
———
Now it’s quiet again except for the waves, that insatiable chorus of ghosts, and he imagines the ocean washing her away bit by bit. He sits on the rock and folds his jacket, sets his shoes neatly in front and then he waits for the tide and eventually the sun.
———
When the rug is just peeking out of the highest waves, he takes off his watch. It’s stopped. He sets it between the shoes, parallel to the soles. He imagines the rug laid open and the corner medallions soaking up the seawater, the red and gold key pattern bleeding into the inner labyrinth.
He thinks about her skull.
Edward throws the watch into the ocean and sits back down on the smooth rock. When the people do show up the rug is still there, peeking out of the water every few seconds and beginning to bob with the ebb and flow.
Someone screams. When the people come back again, he does what they tell him. He puts his hands behind his head and he feels his naked wrist and it’s worn smooth. He kneels, and it makes him smile that he won’t have to iron these pants, and he thinks about the stupid fish staring at the red and gold key pattern of that dead watch.
——————————
