by Rick Reed
Sonny looked the man in the eyes. “It was you. You’re the one that…”
“Big Bobby’s kid was the hardest. Big Bobby—Little Bobby. I swear. Where do they get these names? I could have killed his bodyguards, too, but I knew Big Bobby would do it for me. And he did. You were at the funeral, but the bodyguards were absent. The funeral was beautiful. I saw you and your partner standing close to Big Bobby. That makes you a suck-up, by the way. Yeah. Big Catholic doings. I’m surprised the church would let a person like Little Bobby be buried in sacred ground, but money talks. Am I right? I was counting on every one of you assholes to show up to confirm what I already knew.”
Sonny stared at him. “Big Bobby will never rest until he finds you and guts you like you did to his kid.”
“I didn’t just gut the little bastard. I staked his nuts to the ground. Oh, and he got the first one of the carvings. Shizaru. Do No Evil. But don’t worry. I won’t give yours to someone else.” He set the carved figurine next to the knife and knucks.
Sonny said, “Big Bobby will never stop searching for you. He’s killing his own guys to find you. He’ll do worse to you than you did to his kid, asshole.”
“You’re repeating yourself. That’s the sign of a weak mind.”
“Screw you,” Sonny said.
“It’s embarrassing how easy it was to get you. Are you embarrassed? Well, you should be. I can’t believe you didn’t check me out when I asked for a meet. Greed will get you every time. Hey, you’re not alone in stupidity and greed. Little Bobby got careless. He had a thing for young Vietnamese girls. Did you know that? No? Well, he agreed to meet me alone. Just like you. And because of him I know everything. I know where Knight is and your partner. Sully’s here, by the way. At your house with your girlfriend. Mindy, right?”
Sonny said, “Keep Mindy out of this. She had nothing to do with Big Bobby. You…”
In one swift motion the man slid the knucks back on and slammed them down repeatedly into Sonny’s chest and face, burning and ripping flesh.
When the beating stopped, Sonny lay motionless until the man slapped his face and the top of his head until he drew in a sharp breath. The folding knife clicked open. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.” The tip of the blade dug into Sonny’s scalp and dragged downward, cutting soft tissue and cartilage and exiting through the bottom of the jaw. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.
“G-g-g-god!” Sonny said in a voice garbled by the blood clogging his throat. He made mewling sounds, too exhausted to shiver or cry out.
“God can’t help you, Sonny. I could end this, but I’ve waited a very long time.”
The noose was lifted from around Sonny’s neck and tossed aside. Sonny was lifted into a sitting position, dragged across the floor and propped against a wall. Heavy steel eyebolts were screwed into the wall studs. Lengths of thin steel cable were attached to each eyebolt at one end, and to a three-inch meat hook at the other.
Strong arms encircled Sonny’s chest and lifted him to his feet as if embracing a partner for a slow dance and then shoved him against the wall, impaling him on two of the hooks, his still-bound feet dangling just inches above the floor. The knife slashed through the restraints. His arms hung helplessly, fingers twitching. Sonny’s eyes rolled back in his head. He let out his breath and his head lolled forward, chin touching his chest.
“No, not yet,” the man said, and felt Sonny’s neck. “Good. You’re stronger than I thought. I don’t guess we’re friends anymore. Not after this. But I have one more thing to give you before we part company.”
He grabbed Sonny’s hair and yanked his face up. With the other hand, he pried Sonny’s jaws apart and shoved the carving deep into his throat. The only resistance Sonny offered was reflexive gagging, and his head fell forward again.
The man rummaged in a canvas bag that had been stored in the dark room. He brought out a rubber mallet. He brought out two nine-inch railroad spikes. “I hope you feel everything I’m going to do. It won’t bring her back, but it will give us some closure.”
Chapter 2
“I don’t like it here, Zack,” Dayton said. Dayton Bolin had turned fifteen last week. According to her mother, the official age to have a boyfriend was seventeen. If it were up to her dad she would be locked in a closet until she was old. Like twenty or something. If her parents knew she had dated Zack for over a year now, she would probably be sent to a nunnery. She didn’t know why her parents didn’t like Zack—whom they had met only once for five minutes—but they had taken a disliking to him immediately and forbade her to even mention his name.
Dayton stood on the edge of the frozen sidewalk, cold seeping through the soles of her stylish cowboy boots, icy fingers twining up her calves. She had to admit that Zack had his faults. And he was dirt-poor. In reality, he was poorer than dirt. But he loved her. And she loved him. He thought she was too thin, but he told her that she had a great body. He always said her skin was smooth as silk. He loved her thick red hair, even though her mother was always fussing at her to get it styled. He said she was gorgeous and called her Dy after Princess Diana of the royal family. Princess Diana’s hair was blond most of the time but, for a short while, Diana had worn it the same color of copper red and the same style as Dayton.
Of course, right now you wouldn’t see any of the things Zack saw in her because she had bundled up in multiple layers of clothing and jackets early this morning before sneaking out of the back door to meet Zack. Her face was entirely hidden behind a wool scarf and a knit hat pulled down over the copper-colored hair. A quilted jacket that belonged to her mother and came down almost to her ankles covered most of her body. The only thing that she had neglected was sensible shoes.
Zackariah Pugh was wearing a pair of scuffed combat boots he’d gotten at Army Surplus, with two pairs of wool socks. He had on two pairs of old jeans with the knees torn out of both, and she suspected they were the only jeans he owned. He had on several T-shirts covered by a flimsy jean jacket that was missing the metal buttons. It was the only coat she had ever seen him wear.
He was a year older than her, having been held back a year in grade school. He said it was because his parents had divorced and he moved around a lot with his dad. She thought his parents had just forgotten to register him for school. They were drunk or high most of the time according to Zack, and he had to hide from them for weeks at a time to avoid being made to steal cigarettes or food.
Zack faced her, his hands in his pockets, that disarming grin on his face, teeth chattering just like hers, but she knew he was trying to pretend they weren’t in a bad situation. He was being what he called “a man” and protecting her the only way he knew. She knew him well enough to see behind the smile and the bravado. She could see that he was feeling wretched. Their big plans had turned into this frozen nightmare. She told herself that she would suck it up, for him, because running away to be together was what they both wanted. Her mind and heart were telling her to go home, crawl back under the warm covers, wake up to a big breakfast, and go back to school after the Christmas break. But she wouldn’t. She would do whatever Zack decided. That’s what you do for the person you love.
He smiled at her and the sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of gold and red. Zack said theatrically, “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”
She pulled her scarf down with a gloved hand. She wanted him to see her smile. They had taken drama class together. She was Juliet in a play. Somehow Zack had landed the part of Romeo. Not that he wasn’t a good actor, but she heard he’d punched out Todd Black and threatened anyone else who tried out for the part.
He smiled back at her and said, “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief…” as Zack said this, he made a theatrical bow and finished the line “…that thou, her maid, are far more fair than she.”
Tears ran down Dayton’s cheeks. “I love you, Zack.”
He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her tightly against him.
“I love you too, Lady Dy. You don’t have to go. I’ll take you home.” He said this knowing she would never let him go alone. It was all they’d talked about since her dad had forced her to quit the Drama Club because of Zack. She could change her mind, but he could never go home. Not after last night. Not after he’d taken all of his dad’s hidden money. It didn’t amount to even fifty dollars, but that was an alcoholic’s fortune to his old man.
Dayton lifted her face. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to do this, silly. I just said I didn’t like it here in this…neighborhood. This is a really bad part of town, baby.”
Zack turned away and she realized he wasn’t seeing what she saw. This neighborhood wasn’t any different from where he lived. Same run-down houses. Same dirty yards and streets, same smell of sewers and open dumpsters. She had never been inside his house. He’d made sure of that. She knew it was because he didn’t want her to see how he lived, and he’d told her that his dad would paw at her.
“We’ll take a rest and split a Coke,” Zack said. “Just a few minutes, though. We’ve got to get to the highway.”
He motioned toward her Western boots. “You should have worn the Army boots I picked up for you.”
She didn’t tell him that she had a good idea that Zack had “picked them up” but had failed to pay for them. She didn’t want to wear anything that was stolen. But right now, she’d steal them herself.
He pointed toward a house all by itself, windows busted out of the panes, front door standing wide open. “I see a place we can get out of the cold.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the house.
Chapter 3
Detective Jack Murphy stomped down the ice-crusted snow just inside the crime scene tape to keep it out of the tops of his dress loafers. He was a little under six feet tall, solidly built, with thick, dark hair worn short on the sides and back, pushed up a little in front. His hair showed some gray that his ex-wife Katie said made him distinguished. His eyes were a soft gray that could turn dark and threatening, like a storm you didn’t hear coming.
Those eyes didn’t miss much, and they were now assessing the neighborhood surrounding the house where the body was found. The streets and yards were empty during the daytime. The “night people”—a term used by local law enforcement—would gather in great numbers after sundown during the summer months. Mobs of one or two hundred or more would fill the streets and yards, playing loud music, shooting craps, drinking, fighting, snorting, more fighting, only temporarily interrupted by shootings and visits from police. When the sun came up, they would skitter off to wherever such people slept, patch up their wounds, restock their drug of choice, and do it all over again when the sun went down. But in this kind of cold they mostly stayed inside.
Seeing the streets empty gave Jack an eerie feeling. Police activity was like a magnet that woke up some innate need to watch “someone else” victimized. Maybe it was a way of affirming that all was right with their world. It was that deep-seated psychological need—that moral panic—that the news media preyed on. But the subzero temps had driven everyone inside—even the news crews—and only the hardcore and disenfranchised remained outside, taking shelter where they could find a warm hole, living inside Dumpsters using cardboard and plastic trash bags for blankets. Katie accused him of being too negative. She said he should be more positive. He was positive he was right to be negative.
At one time, this downtrodden community was six square blocks of homes with normal families raising kids, watering their lawns and washing cars while spraying giggling kids accidentally on purpose. Smack in the center of the blocks was a park filled with swings, tables, benches, flowering trees, and a painted, red-roofed gazebo that doubled for a bandstand in the summer.
The decision was made by the city to use the park grounds to build brightly painted row houses with small fenced yards barely big enough to plant small gardens or flowers. It was meant to benefit the elderly poor and down-on-their-luck poor who couldn’t afford a house. Within a year, the row houses had turned into a stain on the landscape. The grass—if there was any—was littered with broken glass, cigarette butts, trash, condoms, syringes, rocks, bricks, sticks and other detritus making a scab on an ugly wound. Not knowing what to do, the city built two-story brick apartment buildings around the row houses for the overflow of poor families. This necessitated demolishing several blocks of existing homes, and financial support in relocating those families, many of whom found homes and jobs in other cities or states. Happy Valley had turned into Crack Alley.
Jack’s father had walked this beat as a patrolman. Jack had walked patrol here when he was a rookie. The older folks tended to be honest, kind, polite, and worthy of respect. He’d sit with them on their steps, shooting the breeze, listening to their stories about the past, and listening to their complaints about the new generation.
Over the years, the old folks became afraid to sit outside, much less be seen talking to a policeman. Jack couldn’t blame them. The kids here, some as young as eight or ten, were carrying guns and mimicking violent gangsta’ rap songs. Last week, someone shot through a window and hit a sleeping seven-year-old girl in the head. A few months ago, a baby was hit with a stray bullet and no one saw or heard anything. The young people’s ambitions leaned toward becoming sports MVPs, or rappers, or drug dealers, and driving Cadillac Escalades and owning pit bulls. That was what passed for respect now. Middle-class values were being eaten up. This community had a cancer and no one cared.
The city’s solution to the violence and decay was to raze the abandoned homes surrounding the row houses and apartment buildings with the promise of building Habitat homes. When the federal funding stopped, so too did the construction. Now the snow-covered, frozen, uneven land seemed empty and tired. Two or three houses remained, standing out like broken teeth in an empty mouth. An even larger portion of the community was riddled with the decay of poverty, unemployment, drugs, gangs and crime. The community here was dying slowly from loss of hope and lack of faith in a system that had turned its back.
A sharp whistle came from the front of the house. Jack saw a uniformed police officer giving him the thumbs up. The show was about to begin. Tarps were on the ground, creating a temporary walkway. Patrolman Lester Steinberg stood beside the door with a clipboard jammed under one arm, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his Tuffy police jacket. His head was tucked down so far into the neck of the jacket his uniform hat was resting on the coat collar.
“You’re one tough SOB, Murphy,” Steinberg said. “I’m surprised you didn’t show up in swim trunks and flip-flops.”
“And a drink with a little umbrella in it,” Jack said.
“Heavy on the Scotch, light on the umbrella,” Steinberg joked.
“You got it,” Jack said and they both chuckled.
Jack was glad to see someone was having a good day. It was his day off, but he had been volunteered to teach a criminal investigation class. He had dressed the part—sport coat, shirt and tie, slacks and thin-soled loafers with those sissy little tassels. Cinderella, his mutt, had chewed up the sleeve of his heavy winter coat yesterday. His plan this morning had been to park close to the building, run in, teach the class, and get the spare warm coat he kept in his office. For now, he was making do with a scarf he’d found under his seat and his thick skin. He was freezing.
He vaguely wondered if he should have some uniform cops canvass the neighborhood for witnesses. Einstein’s definition of crazy was doing something again and again, and hoping for a different outcome each time. People in this neighborhood didn’t talk to cops. Hell, people in the next neighborhood over didn’t talk to cops. They would talk to a reporter, or put something on YouTube, but as for actually doing something good, you could forget it. But he reminded himself that someone would have to do a door-to-door sooner or later. It said so in
the detective manual.
Steinberg said, “They should be ready for you shortly. Hey, Jack, I just heard someone inside let a big fart. Does that contaminate the scene?” He grinned at his own joke. He probably wasn’t lying.
“In that case, you go in first,” Jack said. “You can be my canary.”
“I hear your ex is taking you back,” Steinberg said, the words puffing out of his jacket like exhaust emissions. “My condolences to her.”
On that note, Jack was reminded he had agreed to talk to Katie’s sixth-grade class at Harwood School after lunch. He didn’t have a clue what he’d talk to a bunch of kids about. With rookie cops, he could just tell dirty jokes and some off-the-record, beyond-the-statute-of-limitations stories. Kids were always raising their hands and asking if he’d ever shot anyone, or telling him their mom or dad was gay or in prison or both. Stuff he’d rather not know.
This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Katie, his ex-wife, had taken him back a few months ago and things were going great. He was eating regularly, having sex regularly, wearing clean clothes, having sex regularly, and he was having sex regularly. That bore repeating. He thought she was happy too. But with women you never knew if saying they’re happy was code for something else. The only downside to his renewed relationship was he was drinking less. When it was five o’clock it really was five o’clock. No more beer-eal for breakfast and lunch. Beer-eal was his invention. Rice Krispies and Guinness. The breakfast of Irish champions.
Katie was a teacher at Harwood Grade School. Think of a penitentiary with small people. She had asked/told him to talk to her class about how to become a policeman and to stress they should study. He’d asked her if he could just leave his gun on the classroom floor and let nature take its course. She didn’t think that was funny. He’d done what any good married man in his right mind would and agreed to visit San Quentin & Sons. But God sometimes smiles on the Irish, and here he was. It kind of made up for missing his beer-eal breakfast.
