Sleepless Nights

by Pierre C. Arseneault

  The chaos was over just as quickly as it had begun leaving parts of both vehicles all over the faded black asphalt of the intersection. The car, having taken the worst of it, was left in an unrecognizable heap of twisted red metal. Inside this heap were the bodies of mother and son clasping hands as Andrew in his last moment had reached out and put his hand over his mother’s already cold hand before taking his last breath.

  The truck had veered into a utility pole smashing the front end even more than the original impact. The balance of the truck was barely damaged as the larger vehicle clearly had the advantage in the encounter. This meant its passengers should have fared well had they all been wearing their seat belts like they should. Scotty who was wearing his had only minor injuries consisting mostly of bruises and sprains. Jean-Charles who was riding shotgun also had his seatbelt on but had broken his wrist trying to brace himself. Troy who was in the back had bounced around and was in pretty bad shape. Steven though, sitting in the middle of the back seat without a seat belt had been thrown through the windshield. His body had hit the wooden pole the truck now rested against. He lay on the ground barely showing any signs of life except the expansion and contraction of his rib cage showing he was still breathing.

  7

  Soon after, the flashing lights could be seen from up the streets in all directions as the ambulances and rescue truck were at the intersection. Officer Clarence and his partner were setting up a road block as the first ambulance left with two of the boys bringing them to the local hospital.

  Clarence was stringing yellow tape across the road on the east side so no one would come too close. After a second police car drove up, Clarence spoke in a low tone to the new officer on the scene.

  “Steven was taken to the hospital with what they think are pretty severe injuries. They think his neck is broken and he might be paralyzed.”

  Ducking under the yellow tape Office Petry’s voice broke a little as she asked “That’s Margaret and Andrew isn’t?”

  “Yup. They never stood a chance in that tiny car. Not against this monster of a truck anyway.”

  Pointing, Petry asked “Who was driving the truck?”

  “Little Scotty Newman. I gotta call this in so his parents can be notified before they hear about it.”

  He grabbed the radio from his belt and spoke into it. “Dispatch, this is Officer Clarence. I need you to send an officer to notify the families of the victims before they hear about it from strangers. License plate GUK 158. It’s Margaret and her son Andrew.” Pausing, waiting on a reply from the other end of the radio he walked towards the truck.

  A female voice came on. “Clarence, maybe you should wait until both the ambulances have taken all the victims to the hospital.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sharon but you know half these folks in the houses facing the scene are peaking through the blinds or outside on their cell phones. Most are probably already posting stuff on Facebook about this and I know I wouldn’t want to find out that way if it was my son.”

  Sharon knowing full well he was right spoke briefly. “What’s the plate from the truck?”

  “It’s a vanity plate. P H I L J A N. It’s Philip and Janice Newman’s company truck from Philjan Construction. Their son Scotty was driving it.”

  “Ok Clarence, I will have someone notify the families right away. And I have to agree that I wouldn’t want to find out that way either.”

  Penny For Your Thoughts

  1

  Nestled on the corner of Twenty-Third Street and Main sat a very popular small gourmet coffee shop called B-Cups Café. The old stone building housed the place which was now famous for its rich coffee flavours and it had garnered a regular clientele. The bulk of whom had to walk there due to the complete lack of parking. The entrance was angled just so, giving it easy access to both streets it sat on. Most of the patrons worked nearby as it was nestled in the hub of downtown amidst all the little shops, travel agents, boutiques and assorted offices. This also meant that it saw a large amount of foot traffic in the course of a day. The Café was always the busiest spot on Main with almost everyone popping by for some form of caffeine at least once, if not multiple times a day.

  Summer was here again and the extra foot traffic would draw those who would pray upon the kindness of strangers. Many of the homeless were regulars, almost as much as the people who worked nearby.

  One young man in his twenties was simply known as Stanley. In raggedy clothes he would often sit somewhere near the coffee shop and play his five string guitar. It was a five string guitar because Stanley couldn’t afford to replace the second string from the bottom that had broken when the cops had forced him to move along a few weeks prior. Brenda, the owner of The Uppity Shoe Shop next door had called them as she thought Stanley was bad for business. Nobody knew Stanley’s story because nobody ever took time to learn it. He was just there again this summer like the previous two summers, playing his guitar and singing for pocket change so he could eat.

  Another of the many regulars was Delroy. Dressed in layers of dirty clothes and smelling a bit. Most everyone knew his story because he was more than willing to share it.

  “S-s-spare some change?” uttered Delroy in a half stutter to anyone walking past him on the sidewalk. “The man c-c-cut me because of m-m-m-ma Tourettes. FUCK! I knows it.”

  Delroy was one of the unlucky city workers whose job got cut due to downsizing, which was blamed on one of the many recessions. An uneducated aging black man whom had been dicked around by the union for years was now on his own. His lack of a high school diploma kept him from getting hired anywhere he applied. And those times he got close to landing a job, he would get nervous and his Tourette Syndrome would kick in and his foul mouth would cost him the opportunity. Delroy would often get upset when things wouldn’t be going well as he never could understand why he had to have a high school diploma to be a janitor. He had been a janitor for twenty-eight years without one but that didn’t mean anything now. With no job, it didn’t take long for Delroy to fall behind on the rent and the landlord showed him no mercy, throwing him out on the streets.

  Penniless and having no living relatives to turn to it didn’t take long for the city to swallow a man like Delroy whole. He soon found himself on the streets struggling to survive. Adapting quickly, he did the best he could.

  But Delroy was no ordinary man. There was something very special about him that only he and his mother had known. This secret she took to her grave long ago and he never told a soul.

  “E-E-Excuse me, Mista. Can ya spare some change? Help f-f-feed this old soul will ya?” he would ask the man in the paint smeared jeans and chequered shirt as he walked past him carrying a can of white paint. It was still early this day and traffic was heavy.

  “W-W-What about you there, young lady? Can you spare a few quarters so I’s can eat?” he said to a young black lady in the business suit as she hurried past, not making eye contact. As Delroy turned to look down the street, his face lit up like he had seen an old friend.

  “Hey there, S-S-Samantha,” he said to a full figured, busty lady strutting her stuff as she walked by. “You ve-ve-vacuuming naked with the curtains open again?” he said half laughing with his head cocked to the side. He admired her generous curves as she stopped dead in her tracks. She twisted her body at the waist and looked over her shoulder at Delroy with a look of disbelief.

  “How?” is the only thing that escaped her lips as she caught herself feeling embarrassed that someone other than Marty, her retired neighbour knew about the shows. On Wednesday nights when his wife was gone to her bridge club, Samantha would clean her place in the nude. While the lights next door would go out, she knew full well Marty would be standing in the dark watching her and it turned her on. But this was a secret only she and her white-haired neighbour knew about. So how did this strange homeless man know? Flustered and angry, she turned and walked away
as Delroy smiled wide relishing in the moment.

  He had first seen Samantha a few weeks ago when she had aroused his curiosity. The urge to use his gift on her had been impossible to resist. Today it would be Tony, a mid-thirties looking clean-cut and slender man. He wore dress pants, and stylish shirt and a pair of the trendiest of dress shoes he could afford. But there was something about him that caught the homeless man’s attention. Not being able to resist these urges he approached him as he walked past.

  “Hey you,” Delroy said to the slender man. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “What?” inquired Tony.

  Before he knew it Delroy had grasped his wrist placing a penny in his hand and repeated what he had said previously. “Penny for your thoughts, Mista. P-P-Penny for your thoughts.”

  Tony jerked his hand away and gave the homeless man a dirty look as he walked into the coffee shop. “Crazy bastard,” he said as he looked down at the single penny in the palm of his hand. He flung it to the sidewalk and pulled the door open, disappearing behind the glass door of the Café.

  Meanwhile Delroy stood as if transfixed and oblivious to the world around him. Spasms began rocking his body as he suddenly felt like he had been zapped by a charge of electricity. Again and again his body swayed but he didn’t fall, his feet planted firmly in place. Then it washed over him like a cool breeze on warm summer’s day. With his eyes closed he could see it clear as day. Flashes came quickly as he saw cut up moments from Tony’s memories.

  A bowl of oatmeal, a banana for breakfast, a run in the park, then getting ready for work, he could see it all clearly as if he had been there himself. The day spent selling men’s wear at Dutton’s Fine Threads down the street. Sub sandwich for supper on the way home to free up his evening alone since his girlfriend is out of town. And then Tony standing in his girlfriend’s black dress and high heel shoes admiring himself in the mirror. At bedtime he wore his girlfriend’s silk baby-doll pyjamas. The homeless man stood there for what felt like an eternity while Tony’s memories of the last day washed over him like they were his own. He never understood how he did this and why it didn’t work on everybody. But he had learned to understand that special feeling when he saw someone who it would work on. Unable to resist the urge, he had to do it each and every time. The stronger the urge, the clearer the memories would be.

  As Tony stepped out of the café with his tall double espresso in his hand he made eye contact with Delroy who was now smiling from ear to ear showing rows of yellow teeth.

  “You best not gain anymore w-w-weight, Tony or the be-be-black dress won’t fit anymore,” said the homeless man with a chuckling laugh.

  Embarrassed, Tony hurried down the street trying to ignore the looks he was getting from the people. How the hell did he know this he wondered? Nobody knew his secret so how could he?

  2

  Four days later. People were making their way down the street mostly going to lunch from work; Delroy was still near the coffee shop asking for change as usual.

  “Th-Th-Thanks, lady,” he said as a grey haired woman handed him a dollar and change. “I sure do prechiate it, Ma’am”.

  If all went well Delroy would have some money left over after buying supper that night. He just needed a little more and that’s when he spotted the tall clean-looking man in the business suit. He had come out of the Going-Going-Gone Travel Agency down the street and was walking in his direction. The strongest urge he ever had washed over him in a flash. Delroy reached into his breast pocket of the raggedy shirt he was wearing and pulled out the entirety of its contents. A single penny that he always kept at the ready and as the man approached he looked directly at him and spoke without a stutter.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Mista.”

  Before the man knew what was happening, the homeless man had grasped his hand and pressed a penny into his palm.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Mista. Penny for your thoughts.”

  As the man pulled his hand away, he spoke in a rude tone of voice. “Don’t touch me, you filthy bum,” he said as he walked off at a brisk pace.

  Meanwhile Delroy stopped in his tracks with his back still to the man who was now walking away. He stood very still with his feet planted firmly like he had done on many occasions. A slight electric twitch and in a moment he was transfixed and oblivious to the world around him. Spasms rocked his body as he suddenly felt like he had been zapped by a charge of electricity, again and again. Then it washed over him like a cool breeze and with his eyes closed he could see it clear as day. The flashes came quickly as he saw snippets of the man’s memories.

  He became aware of the man’s name. Mark Holbrook. The flashes began simple with an evening watching a basketball game. Next morning he had coffee while he read the newspaper, getting dressed for work and then leaving home. Rush hour traffic and then flirting with the coffee shop waitress that morning. Arguing with his wife on the phone and then booking a flight to Mexico for two on a web site. Arguing with the wife that afternoon and then crushing her skull violently using the brass antique vase from their mantel. The very last flash was of Mark standing over his wife’s body. His face speckled with her blood and a look of satisfaction. It was the last flash because Delroy was awoken as if from a nightmare that was all too real.

  When Delroy came to his senses he felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew right away he had to call Detective Foster about this. He wasn’t sure what he would tell him this time. Last time the Detective refused to take him seriously. But he couldn’t let that stop him as his mother always told him he had this gift for a reason.

  Maybe this was the reason he wondered. Pulling out a handful of change he selected a single quarter and returned the balance to the pocket whence it came.

  Delroy first met Detective Grady Foster on a sunny afternoon in October a year before this day. Foster, an aging Detective in his late fifties had gotten a bit lazy in his job trying to pawn off cases to the younger guys in an attempt to simply coast by. A divorced heavy smoker, severely out of shape, Delroy felt a strong urge to make contact with him. He didn’t get a whole lot from him except many flashes of cigarettes. Amongst these flashes he got was the Detective giving out his business card with his number on it.

  Delroy never quite understood why the flashes came to him in the first place. He knew it was the contact that did it and not the actual act of giving the penny. But the penny was a reason for him to touch the person. An excuse to make the link he needed to make. And Delroy never forgot the flashes of memories he saw. He could still picture the card in the man’s yellow cigarette-stained fingers.

  Delroy held the payphone receiver to his ear as he heard a voice. “Detective Foster here, what’s the problem?”

  “The man’s name is Mark. Mark Holbrook. Ya gotta f-f-find where he lives,” said Delroy immediately not wasting any time getting to the point.

  “Who is this?” asked Detective Foster.

  “That ain’t important, Mista. Ya gotta f-f-find where Mark Holbrook lives and go there. He killed his wife and is gonna g-g-get away with it if ya don’t hurry,” replied an impatient Delroy.

  “I know you!” replied Detective Foster. “You’re the guy who told me where to find the Bennett girl’s body last winter after she got abducted.”

  “Never mind that, are ya gonna do-do-do it or not?” asked a frustrated Delroy knowing full well he would. He knew now this was why he had that urge long ago to make contact with the Detective. He would need someone to tell this kind of thing to.

  “How did you know?” asked Detective Foster. “She hadn’t even been reported missing yet when you told me where to find her. Who are you?”

  “Look, are ya gonna help or not? I can’t let this guy get away with this. My Momma wouldn’t like it if I d-d-did, God rest her soul,” said Delroy.

  “Ok, how do you know this Mark Hallaback did anything wrong?” asked De
tective Foster.

  “It’s Holbrook. Mark Holbrook. You listening to me?” asked an angry Delroy. “FUCK!” he exclaimed as his Tourettes kicked in.

  “Ok, what did you say he did?” inquired Detective Foster.

  “He killed his wife in their house. FUCK! Bashed her d-d-damn skull in with an ugly vase,” added the homeless man.

  “Ok. I guess I could send a car over and make sure everything is alright,” replied the Detective. “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know the damn address. It don’t work like that. FUCK! I only see stuff; certain parts. I know it’s near the c-c-corner of English Avenue and Summer Street. And the house is nice,” said Delroy. “Grey s-s-stone on the front with a white picket fe-fence. Big Oak tree in the front yard.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” said Detective Foster.

  “FUCK! He just bought 2 tickets to Mexico. Leaves in the mornin,” added Delroy. “Bought them from the Goin-Goin-Gone Travel Agency. I saw him coming out of their place earlier today.”

  “That might help me track him down,” replied Foster. “Where can I reach you?”

  “FUCK!” said Delroy just before hanging up.

  3

  “Damn it!” said Foster as he hung up his phone.

  “What?” asked the young Detective Martin.

  “Just got a lead on a possible murder. From the same guy who gave me the tip on the Bennett girl. After what happened last time I almost have to believe him, right?” asked Detective Foster. “Do me a favour, Martin. Call a travel agency downtown called Going-Gone or something like that. I need to know if a Mark Hallaback; no… Holbrook; Mark Holbrook booked a flight to Mexico. I’m gonna go check this one out myself,” said Detective Grady Foster as he grabbed his jacket and his half empty pack of cigarettes and headed out.