Men of the Mean Streets

by Greg Herren

  “I didn’t know that could happen.”

  “Doesn’t happen often, but it happens.” He cast another glance around the room, then returned his attention to Conor. “I guess she was cleaning up and spotted something wrong. Went back to the equipment room to take a look, got too close, and then, well…” He paused. “That’s what the coroner said, at least.”

  “You think maybe something else happened?”

  “All I know is the only other person here was Pat. He says he was taking a nap in the office, but you really think he slept straight through while all that happened? I figure she must’ve at least had time to scream.”

  “You think he killed her?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he didn’t care enough to help. Thing is, Flo had been in the business a long time. This was her family’s, not his. She knew enough to treat the equipment with respect.”

  “Maybe she just got careless.”

  “Maybe.” Tay kept his hands busy. “Wish I’d have been here, though, ’cause Flo was a good woman. After my parents died she treated me like her very own. A lot better than he’s ever treated me. That’s for sure.”

  Conor might have said something—although he had no idea what—but he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, so he excused himself.

  It was Artie Green. It wasn’t good news.

  “Sorry, Conor,” said his voice, fading in and out from the bad connection. “I’m tapped out. Have you called anyone else?”

  “You know there’s no one else, Artie. Not anymore.”

  Artie sighed. “Wish I could help you, pal. But it’s a bad time.”

  “All right, I’ll think of something.” Conor tapped a button and disconnected the call without saying good-bye.

  When he was back at the bar Tay asked, “Was that your friend?”

  Conor didn’t answer, and Tay didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he poured him another drink before walking out to the seating area to collect glasses the handful of bowlers hadn’t bothered to bring to him. He looked out the front door on his route back to where Conor sat, deep in thought.

  “Pat’s gone,” he said quietly, setting the glasses in the small sink under the bar. “Must’ve taken a walk or something.”

  “Good,” said Conor. “He’s not exactly someone I feel like dealing with right now.”

  “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I’ll figure something else out.”

  “Yeah, well…” Tay leaned close. “Remember the cashbox.”

  Conor shook his head and focused his eyes on a worn patch on the carpet. “That’s tempting, kid. Especially right now. But I’m not a thief.”

  “Well, there goes one of my theories.”

  “What’s that?” He looked up and caught light dancing in Tay’s eyes.

  “My theories about why you had to leave New York. I figured you either stole from someone or killed someone. Now I guess it’s down to murder.”

  “You’re funny.”

  Tay leaned across the bar. “Seriously, Conor. Probably two thousand dollars. Maybe more. We could split it. Then we’d both have enough to get to San Francisco.”

  “You know, even if I stole the money—which I won’t—you couldn’t go with me. We both disappear at the same time Thursby’s money disappears, we’d be arrested before we made it to Denver.”

  Tay nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “So just put that idea out of your head. I don’t know where I’ll get the money to get my car out of the garage and out of Patience, but I’ll do it somehow.”

  Conor had a few more drinks at the bar, but Thursby returned and it was time to get back to the motel. Under the watchful eyes of the owner, Tay couldn’t even slip him a bottle for the room.

  “See you around,” Conor said, standing.

  “I’ll stop by later,” Tay whispered, and even though Thursby couldn’t hear his words, his expression made it clear he didn’t like them.

  *

  Room 19. Conor sat on the bed and tapped ashes in the plastic cup and tried to figure out where he was going to get enough money to get his car out of the garage.

  There were some relatives he hadn’t spoken to in years who might be able to help, but it would take a few days to track them down. And every extra day he would have to spend in Room 19 was another forty-five dollars—plus tax—out of his pocket. It came down to a question of whether or not he’d find enough cash to get out of Patience before he completely ran out of the cash he did have and was stuck in the town for the rest of his life.

  He had pretty much decided to stop thinking about it for the night when Tay’s knock sounded at the door. He opened it and let him in.

  “I did it!” he said, a broad smile on his face.

  “Did what?” Conor asked, then saw the rectangular metal box in his hands. “What’s that?” he asked, although he knew exactly what it was.

  “A present.”

  “It’s the money from the bowling alley, isn’t it? How’d you get it?”

  “Pat passed out in the office, so I just took it.”

  “He’s gonna miss it.”

  “Not till the morning.” Tay leaned forward, grazing Conor’s cheek with his soft lips, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Proud of me? Now you’ve got the cash to get out of here. And I can start a new life, too! Maybe meet up with you in San Francisco.”

  The shirt fell to the ground, exposing Tay’s smooth, slim body. Conor would have liked to look at that, but couldn’t take his eyes off the cashbox.

  It would be so easy—too easy—to pop it open, drop a few hundred at the garage in the morning, hit the highway, and never look back. Never again think of Patience, Colorado. Maybe he wasn’t a thief, but he’d done worse things in his life.

  “I can’t do it,” he said finally after long seconds of thought, looking up to see Tay unsnapping the front button of his jeans. The pants began to slide over his slender hips, but the younger man quickly clutched them at the waist with one fist, exposing only a hint of the soft flesh beneath them.

  “But…our lives!”

  “You’re gonna have to take the money back. I can’t be part of this.”

  “I won’t.” He looked away from Conor and hiked his pants back up, snapping the button. “I don’t know why you’re treating him better than you treat me! He probably killed his wife! He treats me like his slave! And you’re afraid to steal a little money from him?”

  “This isn’t a game, Tay. I want to get out of here more than you do, but this isn’t the way to do it. I’m not gonna sit in jail for years over a lousy couple thousand dollars. You, either.”

  Tay crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. “I’m not taking it back.”

  “Then I’ll do it. You think Thursby’s still asleep?”

  Tay didn’t answer.

  “I asked if he’s still asleep.”

  “I’m sure he is,” was the sullen reply. “Usually sleeps for a few hours after he passes out.”

  “Okay, then,” said Conor, and he opened the door, grateful to see that the rain was still holding off. “Let’s hope you’re right. And let’s hope he hasn’t already missed this.”

  “I figured you’d appreciate it.”

  “You figured wrong.” Conor stroked Tay’s face with his thumb and forefinger. “And you know that, too.”

  Inside the room, Tay asked, “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Wait here. Or go home. That choice is up to you.”

  Conor left the door ajar, taking one glance back to see that Tay—still defiant, still angry—hadn’t moved.

  *

  A few minutes later he was at the bowling alley. The door let out a moan as it arced inward, revealing the now familiar dim interior.

  He took a few steps toward the bar but paused as a voice called out: “Just a minute, just a minute.” And then Pat Thursby stumbled through the doorway and into
view, a beer bottle in one hand, and Conor had to think fast.

  “Thought you was Tay,” Thursby muttered. “Bar’s closed.”

  Conor gingerly held the cashbox in front of him. “Found this outside the door. Figured it might belong to you.”

  Thursby tried to focus his eyes, taking a few unsteady steps toward him to get a closer look. Then he realized what he was looking at. “What are you doing with that?”

  “Like I said, I was passing by…”

  “Passing by? This time of night?”

  “I thought maybe your bar was open.”

  “Looking for the boy, were you?”

  “Listen, Thursby, I don’t want any trouble…”

  “Give me that box.” He lunged forward, ripped it from Conor’s hands before retreating. “It better all be in here.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Thursby took another few steps forward, backing Conor into a rack of bowling balls that clunked solidly at the impact. “Never liked the look of you the minute I seen you. I’m calling the cops.”

  “Now calm down…”

  “Nothing but a good-for-nothin’ criminal. Just like I thought.” He waved the beer bottle at Conor. “Don’t move. I got a gun and I know how to use it.”

  “Thursby, you’re out of line here. I haven’t done anything to you…”

  His words fell on deaf ears. The older man took a few ungainly steps backward, reaching for the phone at the edge of the bar…

  And Conor Laughlin saw his future. The cops would come. They’d believe Thursby—the responsible local businessman—not the drifter he’d found with his cashbox. If Conor was lucky enough to get a trial, it would be the good citizens of Patience, Colorado—not a jury of Conor’s peers—that would hear the evidence. And that would be it. The end of the road.

  Exactly what he’d hoped to avoid by returning Thursby’s cashbox. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

  Thursby reached for the telephone, and Conor’s self-preservation instincts kicked in. There was no rational thought involved, just an animalistic reaction. Fight or flight…Kill or be killed.

  Just like in New York, really. Except quite a bit worse.

  *

  Conor stood over the prone body of Pat Thursby, watching blood ooze from his head. The bowling ball he’d used to crush Thursby’s skull had rolled a few yards away. The cashbox was tucked under his arm. The bottle he’d been holding was spilled across the carpet. The receiver dangled by its cord from the telephone, swaying slightly in the silent air.

  And he kept staring, only starting to comprehend what had happened.

  “Oh my God!” he heard Tay say. He hadn’t realized Tay was there, or for how long. “What did you do?” When Conor didn’t answer, Tay repeated himself. “What did you do?”

  Not taking his eyes off Thursby’s body, Conor said, “He was gonna call the cops.”

  “This is bad. What did…” Tay saw the weapon. “You hit him in the head with a bowling ball?”

  “I don’t remember it,” Conor said, slowly coming out of his daze. “He was gonna call the cops and, well…then it happened.”

  Tay shook his head. “There’s no turning back now, Conor. For either of us.” While Conor stood silently, still staring at the remains of Pat Thursby, Tay locked the front door and extinguished the light. In the dark, with Thursby now no more than a shadow on the floor, it was easier for Conor to regain his composure.

  “That’s it,” he said with a prolonged sigh. “Life ends in Patience.”

  Tay shook his head. “We can say it was an accident.”

  “Accident? How do you accidentally get your head caved in with a bowling ball?”

  Tay motioned at the door. “We drag him outside. Drop his body in the culvert next to the tracks. Make it look like he got hit by the train.”

  Conor thought it over. His stomach churned. “Is there a train tonight?”

  Tay was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Every night, around two o’clock.”

  “Ever see anyone hit by a train before? I mean, is this gonna make sense to anyone?”

  “Sure. He leaves the bar. Drunk, stumbling. The train is passing by. He trips and smashes his head into the train. It’s gonna make sense.”

  “I dunno…”

  “You’ve got two choices, Conor.” Tay was pacing, thinking out loud. “Make this look like an accident, and you’ll probably get away with it. Hell, you’ll probably be in Denver before they find the body. Leave him here, though, and it ain’t gonna be hard for them to figure out this is murder. Like it or not, you’re gonna be a suspect. You needed money, you’ve been hanging out at the bar… Even the cops in this town are gonna be able to put these pieces together.”

  “You could vouch for me.”

  “And I would. But even if I do, the sheriff’s just gonna make it sound like we had some sort of gay sex thing going on. Say you killed Pat ’cause you were jealous, or say we killed him together. The locals will eat that up, and it won’t end up helping you.” Tay looked at Conor’s face, pale in the dreary light that fought its way through the window. “You don’t look good, Conor.”

  “Well…I’ve never killed a man before.”

  “That’ll do it, I guess. So are we gonna move this body?”

  Conor bent down and grabbed Thursby around his shoulders. “You get his feet,” he said. He began to pull the body up…

  Thursby coughed.

  “Jesus!” yelled Conor, dropping Thursby to the ground as he jumped back, barely keeping his balance.

  There was silence for a few moments, then Thursby groaned from the floor below them and choked out, “P-police.”

  “Hit him again!” Tay yelled, as Thursby’s hand grasped his ankle.

  Thursby gurgled. “T…Tay? Tay, w-what’s happening…?”

  Conor found the bowling ball and again brought it down on Thursby’s head. There was a dull thud as it hit its target and rolled off into the shadows.

  This time they stood in the silent darkness for a long time, tensely waiting for another breath…another grasp…another sign of life.

  Eventually, Conor took a deep breath and again grabbed Pat Thursby’s shoulders.

  *

  They made their way down the side of the building, away from the road and next to the tracks, careful not to drag the body although Thursby’s bulk made carrying him a chore. They reached the edge of the culvert and slogged through mud until they could drop him, letting Thursby’s frame fall naturally to the ground. Panting, they crawled back up to the parking lot.

  “I don’t know,” said Conor, bent close to the ground to examine their handiwork, looking for something they did wrong. “You really think this will work?”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Tay, crouched next to him. “Blind drunk…maybe he thinks he can beat the train…then, wham! It clips him and he ends up in the ditch. Doesn’t happen often, but it happens.”

  That sounded eerily familiar to Conor but he shrugged it off. “You’ll clean up the mess inside?”

  “Sure will.”

  They walked back to the building. Conor had no intention of going inside…of reliving the unthinkable act he’d just committed.

  “I should get back to the motel.”

  Tay nodded. “Yeah. Wait here a second.” He disappeared inside, and Conor heard a half dozen muted bangs before Tay returned. “The box was harder to open than I thought it’d be. Guess it’s good that bowling ball was still around.”

  Conor didn’t smile.

  “I know you don’t want to take this, but I figure now, well…”

  “Right.”

  Tay counted out the bills and handed Conor just over one thousand dollars in a variety of denominations, none larger than a twenty.

  “So now you can get your car and get out of here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And…well, how am I gonna find you? You know, when I get to San Francisco?”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”


  “By the time I get out there, it will be.”

  “Then look for me when you get there. I’ll be around.”

  *

  Conor didn’t sleep that night. The memories—of Pat Thursby’s bludgeoned head, the blood-spattered bowling ball, Thursby’s gurgles—were far too vivid. He was even more afraid of what Thursby might do in his dreams.

  Instead he washed the mud off his pants and shoes and inspected his clothes for Thursby’s blood. He couldn’t find any, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He’d have to remember to get rid of the clothes as soon as he got the chance. He wasn’t as confident as the kid that everyone would just accept that Thursby’d been clipped by a train.

  Around two in the morning he listened for it, but the rain had come again—torrents soaking the town of Patience and Klein’s Motel, rumbling through the drainpipe like a waterfall outside his window—and he couldn’t hear anything else. It was just as well. Whatever time that train rumbled through, it would have only brought the reality of what he had done into sharper focus.

  It was still raining early in the morning, and when he looked out the window everything—town as well as sky—was a dismal gray. He spent a long time in the shower, willing the hot water to wash away his sins. If not his sins, his memories.

  Conor put the last of his damp, dirty clothes in the suitcase when he heard a siren. Holding his breath, he crept to the window and parted the curtain in time to see a patrol car pass. It seemed to slow as it approached the railroad tracks, and then he lost sight of it.

  A few minutes later, he left the hotel without checking out with the motel clerk; whichever Klein was working the desk.

  He turned the corner of the motel, walking toward town, and saw the patrol car parked in front of the bowling alley, its lights still throwing a pulse of red onto the gray sky. His heart raced and a cool sweat beaded on his brow, despite the rain. He passed the scene of his crime—barely looking at the sheriff’s deputy who stood at the edge of the culvert, his attention mercifully drawn away—and quickened his pace.

  At the garage, Luke eagerly took his cash and handed him the keys. He played with the chaw of tobacco hidden under his lower lip and said, “I was wondering if you’d be able to come up with the cash.”