The Man Who Couldn't Miss

by David Handler

  “Plenty. You have nothing to worry about criminally.”

  “But what if R.J. goes to the media?”

  “Bruce said he’ll take care of it.”

  “Are you being honest with me? You sound funny.”

  “Funny ha-ha?”

  “Funny as in you’re holding out on me. Bruce isn’t going to hire someone to beat him up or something, is he?”

  “Of course not. That isn’t his style.”

  Merilee fell silent for a moment. “This has unearthed emotions that I’ve kept buried for a long, long time, Hoagy. I’m not feeling particularly proud of myself right now.”

  “You were young and frightened. You made a mistake. We all do. God knows I have.”

  “But that poor man died.”

  “You weren’t driving. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “So why does it feel like it was?”

  “Just try to let it go, okay? We’re handling it, and you’ve got Private Lives to deal with.”

  “I’ve scheduled another run-through for six o’clock. We’ll keep at it all night until we get it right.”

  “And you will.”

  She sighed wearily. “I wish I shared your confidence. I doubt I’ll make it home. I’ll just take a room at the inn and catch a couple of hours of sleep. Give Lulu a hug for me, will you?”

  I changed into a frayed black T-shirt, work jeans and my old Chippewa boots. Went in the wire chicken coop to say hey to the girls. Came away with a basket filled with nine fresh brown eggs. Then I paid a visit to the garden and harvested some arugula, romaine lettuce, parsley, chervil and chives. Did some weeding, too. Lulu kept me company by rolling around on her back in the tall, cool grass with her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. I sat back on my heels and watched a red-tailed hawk circle over Whalebone Cove and wondered why life couldn’t be this uncomplicated and pleasurable all of the time. Then I shook myself and carried my bounty inside to the kitchen.

  I was washing the greens when the phone rang. The business line.

  Same hoarse, raspy voice, although this time he sounded as if he were calling from the pay phone in a barroom. I could hear the clinking of ice in glasses, raucous laughter. “You got my money, smart guy?”

  “I paid a visit to the bank.”

  “Good. Know where the old brass mill in Sherbourne used to be?”

  “The ruins on the riverbank? Yes, I do.”

  “Meet me at what’s left of the front gate at nine o’clock. Come alone, or we’ll have ourselves a problem.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have a four-legged partner.”

  “Leave him at home.”

  “He is a she. And I can’t. She gets lonesome and howls.”

  “Whatever,” he grumbled, hanging up on me.

  It was nearly six. I put down a fresh can of 9Lives for Lulu. Made myself an omelet out of three freshly laid eggs topped with just-picked herbs and a salad of the arugula and romaine. I ate at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of chilled Sancerre. By the time I’d washed the dishes it was time to go. I grabbed the envelope I’d prepared, climbed into the Woody with Lulu and took off, still dressed in my frayed black T-shirt, work jeans and Chippewas.

  Not all of Sherbourne was quaintly picturesque. On the outskirts of the village, on the eastern banks of the Sherbourne River, lay the crumbling red brick ruins of the long-shuttered brass mill. The riverfront there was a fetid, toxic waste dump of sludgy black water, broken glass and garbage. Some enterprising young artists were hoping to renovate the old mill for studio space. But for now it was a place where local kids went to get their buzz on. Dealers were busted there periodically for peddling weed.

  There were no streetlights. No one was around. All was darkness and ominous quiet. I parked the Woody a quarter mile away and hoofed it, flashlight in hand, manila envelope tucked under my arm. Lulu marched stoutly along by my side, large black nose to the ground, snuffling.

  As we neared the ravaged brick pillars that had once supported the mill’s twelve-foot cast iron front gate she let out a low warning growl.

  R.J. was already there waiting for us. In my flashlight’s beam he looked like a creature that was meant to live in the dark—all jawbones, snaggly, rotting teeth and wild, bulging eyes. He was gaunt and pale and a sheen of oily sweat clung to his forehead. He wore a tank top, cutoffs and sneakers without socks. The butt of a handgun stuck out of the waistband of his cutoffs.

  Behind him I noticed a couple of blankets, a duffel bag and some empty peppermint schnapps bottles. He was hiding out here from the law. Not to mention whoever he owed that money to.

  “That’s funny,” he said in his raspy voice. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

  “That’s funny, you’re not.”

  Next to me, Lulu settled into a low, watchful crouch.

  “But you done good, bro.” He shined his own light on the envelope under my arm. “Didn’t call the cops.”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Because you smart guys know how to roll. You take what you want, then you protect what’s yours. That’s how it works, right?” He had dry mouth. Kept licking his lips. “It should be me up there.”

  “Up where?”

  “On the big screen. I got more acting talent in my little finger than Tom Cruise has in his whole body.”

  “As it happens, quite a few of us can say that.”

  “I just wouldn’t kiss up to them is all. And they don’t like that.”

  “They being . . . ?”

  “Directors. Not a one of them ever gave me a fair shot. Just kept telling me what to do, where to go.”

  “Yeah, that’s why they call them directors.”

  “The smug bastards,” he said bitterly. “They treated all of the others like their precious little princes and princesses. Pampered them, stroked them.” R.J. fished a rumpled pack of Kools from his back pocket and lit one, his hands shaking. “But not me, never me. I had the looks. I had the chops. I had it all. So how come they didn’t give me a chance, huh?”

  I didn’t answer him. He wasn’t expecting me to. Wasn’t talking to me.

  Lulu got up now and circled around behind him, a low growl coming from her throat. She has a pretty menacing growl for someone with no legs.

  R.J. watched her, amused. “What’s Dumbo up to?”

  “She doesn’t like to be called that.”

  “Like I give a fuck.” He flicked his cigarette off into the darkness. It hit the pavement with a shower of sparks. “Give it here,” he said, meaning the money.

  I handed him the envelope. He ripped it open greedily, shining his light inside. “What’s this?”

  “You said you wanted to get away to Mexico. I took you at your word. That’s a first-class ticket from JFK to Mexico City. Direct flight, no layovers. And an Amtrak ticket from the Old Saybrook station to Grand Central, where you can catch a bus out to the airport. Also five thousand dollars to get you started. Five thou will go a long way down there. I trust that your passport’s up-to-date?”

  “I told you to bring me twenty-five thou!”

  “I know what you told me but I don’t take direction well. I suppose we’re a lot alike in that regard.”

  R.J. gaped at me in disbelief. “Bro, what in the hell are you doing?”

  “Giving you a chance to make a fresh start. It’s a good deal. The best you’re going to get. I’d take it if I were you.”

  “What are you, tripping? I am in deep to some very cruel dudes. I need that twenty-five thou!”

  “And I need to floss daily. Doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

  Behind him, Lulu moved in closer, her growl now a full-fledged snarl.

  “Tell her to cut that out,” he warned me, his eyes narrowing.

  “I can try, but she’s very independent minded. All of the women in my life are.”

  “You are not showing me respect,” he said, biting the words off angrily. “You think I can be bought off wit
h chump change and a plane ticket?”

  “You’re the one who brought up Mexico. I’ve made every effort to accommodate you. And, like I said, it’s the best deal you’re going to get. Believe me, the other one that’s on the table is a whole lot worse.”

  He tore up the plane ticket and scattered the pieces in the air. Likewise the train ticket. The money he pocketed, breathing heavily in and out. “Okay, here it is. I’ll give you one more chance, but only because I got no other choice.”

  “One more chance for what?”

  “I need twenty-five thou more.”

  “You’re not going to get it.”

  “And you’re not listening to me. Shut up and listen to me, will ya? You got twenty-four hours. Bring it to me tomorrow night, same time, same place. Right here. And you’d better have it. If you don’t then I will make your life a living hell. Are you hearing me?”

  “I’m afraid not. Is there a point to this?”

  He glared at me savagely, his wild eyes bulging, his rotting gray teeth bared. “Be here tomorrow night with that money. All of it. Or you’ll be sorry you ever met me.”

  “I’m already sorry I met you. Come on, Lulu, let’s go. The air around here stinks.”

  I started back toward the Woody, Lulu on my heel.

  “You were warned!” R.J. called after me. “Remember that, smart guy!”

  We got in the Woody and I drove away. I needed to get the stench of the decaying old mill and R. J. Romero’s sweaty desperation out of my nostrils. I steered down to Guilfoyle’s town beach and walked along the water’s edge with Lulu for a couple of miles, soaking up the clean, fresh breeze that was coming off of the Sound. We weren’t alone out there. Couples were walking hand in hand, talking softly and laughing. Main Street over by The Nook was crowded with parked cars. The local revival house was showing The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner with Tom Courtenay and Michael Redgrave, which is an okay movie if you’re into brilliant. I found an empty stool at The Nook’s counter, which gave me another chance to hear Michael Stipe mewl “Everybody Hurts” on the kitchen radio. Had a cup of coffee and one of The Nook’s famous apple cider doughnuts. Lulu settled for a bowl of water before she stretched out under me and dozed, tuckered from our beach walk. Then we headed home.

  Narrow, twisting Joshua Town Road wasn’t easy to drive late at night. There were no streetlights or porch lights. I’m talking total darkness. It was hard to go more than twenty miles per hour. And that was on a nice, balmy summer night. You ought to try it in the sleet sometime. It took me nearly an hour to make it from The Nook back to Merilee’s farm at the end of the road beyond the PRIVATE sign. She’d installed an electric eye that tripped floodlights to illuminate the courtyard between the house, chapel and barn. Otherwise it would have been impossible to find your way around.

  I pulled in and shut off the Woody’s engine. Right away, I noticed that something was wrong.

  It was quiet. Too quiet.

  Old Saxophone Joe wasn’t crowing.

  Lulu got between my feet. She was shaking.

  It didn’t take me very long to find his body and all of the feathers and blood. He’d been beheaded. His head was affixed to the barn door with a hatchet. Blood had oozed from it down the barn door into the dirt.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I assured Lulu, swallowing my revulsion. “We’re okay.”

  I had zero doubt that it was R.J. who’d been here and done this. I stood there, looking around at the darkness beyond the floodlights, feeling very exposed and vulnerable. The farm had no security system. Just neighbors. And the nearest one, Mr. MacGowan, lived a mile away. As I stood there, Lulu trembling between my feet, I tried to remember if I’d passed anyone heading up Joshua Road just now. I hadn’t. I took a closer look at the blood on the ground under Joe’s head. It was congealing. So it had been a while since he’d come and gone.

  Assuming he’d gone.

  The farmhouse door was locked and the lock hadn’t been tampered with. He hadn’t tried to get in. Not that way anyhow. I walked all of the way around the place, flashlight in hand, to see if he’d broken any windows. He hadn’t. I unlocked the door, went inside and searched the place, turning on lights everywhere I went until the whole house was ablaze. He hadn’t stolen anything. Paintings, antiques, Merilee’s jewelry, her great-grandmother’s silver. Nothing was missing. Or at least it didn’t appear to be.

  He’d simply wanted to send a message. And he had.

  And, in case you’re wondering, the answer is: Yes, I did check the mudroom freezer chest. My manuscript was still in there with the venison leg.

  I was fetching a shovel, broom and an old burlap gunnysack from the barn when I heard a car coming up the driveway. Lulu began to bark furiously.

  It was a silver Ford Crown Victoria sedan. Pete Tedone got out, wearing the same shiny black suit he’d had on at lunch, and looked around at the place admiringly before he strode toward us. Lulu stopped barking and greeted him, her tail thumping.

  He bent down and patted her before he straightened back up, looked at Old Saxophone Joe’s head hatcheted to the barn door and said, “Wow, you’re even dumber than I thought.”

  “How so?”

  “You tried to make a deal with him. This guy’s in no position to make a deal. He owes twenty-five thou to somebody who will kill him if he doesn’t pay up. What good does a plane ticket do him? He won’t live long enough to make it to the airport.”

  “Back up a second. You followed me to the travel agency?”

  “Let’s say I’ve been monitoring your activities. That’s what Bruce hired me to do. He’s worried about you. And, no offense, I can see why he is.”

  “Were you at the old brass mill, too?”

  “Quite some eyesore, isn’t it? The town ought to tear it down.”

  “I had no idea you were there. You’re good at your job.”

  “That’s why I get paid the big bucks, although I must say that you sensitive artistic types give me a real pain, you know? If it were up to me I’d have blown Romero’s head off right there, thrown his body in the river and all of your troubles would be over. Instead, you still owe him that money, Miss Nash’s reputation is still hanging by a thread and now you’ve got yourself one headless rooster. You want some help dealing with that?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Have a lot of experience burying decapitated roosters, do you?”

  “Can’t say I do, but I’ll be fine.”

  He took off his suit jacket, laid it on the hood of his car and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Come on, pal. I’ll give you a hand.”

  Tedone held the gunnysack open while I stuffed Old Saxophone Joe’s remains inside. I used the broom to sweep up as many feathers as I could. Then I yanked the hatchet from the barn door and deposited Joe’s head in the sack. Tedone cinched it shut and we carried it into the woods behind the house. He held the flashlight while I dug a hole three feet deep in the moist soil, dropped the sack in and covered it over with dirt. I piled a fieldstone cairn on top to mark the spot. Lulu took in the entire operation with mournful watchfulness.

  When we got back to the barn I filled a bucket from the work sink and took a scrub brush and cleanser to the barn door. Then I cleaned and oiled the hatchet while Tedone washed up.

  After I’d washed up I said, “Buy you a cold root beer?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  I went inside and returned with two glass bottles of the Stewart’s that I’d bought at Walt’s Market.

  Pete Tedone took a long drink, letting out a grateful sigh. “This is the good stuff.”

  “Nothing but the best at this pop stand.”

  He drank down some more. “So have you changed your mind?”

  “About what?”

  “About that proposition I laid out to you this afternoon. The one that involves putting a certain sum of money toward a charitable cause.”

  “No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “You’re deal
ing with a very, very low class of person here,” he said, draining his root beer. “I’d advise you to reconsider.”

  “I’m afraid not. Can I buy you another round?”

  “No, thanks. I want to go home, take a shower and snuggle with my wife. I love my wife. That’s why I’m burying headless roosters in the woods instead of sitting behind a big desk in Middletown pulling down a fat salary and benefits. Because we do whatever we have to do for the women we love.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  He tossed his jacket in the car and got in. “I’m not unsympathetic to your situation, you know,” he said through his open window. “If you bump Romero off you’d never be able to tell her, and you can’t live with that. I get it.” He looked around admiringly again. “Beautiful farm she’s got here. I’ve seen places like this in magazines but I’ve never actually been to one.” Then he turned to me and said, “He won’t be back tonight. Get yourself a good night’s sleep.”

  Pete Tedone started up his Crown Victoria and worked it back down the long drive to Joshua Town Road. I went inside the house, poured myself a large Macallan and drank it while I turned off all of the lights and locked up. Then I went out to the chapel, showered, got into bed and lay there in the dark with Lulu, listening to the night creatures and the crickets while Lulu whimpered softly. She was upset about Old Saxophone Joe. I did my best to console her but she really isn’t cut out for the stark realities of farm life. Street muggings she understands. Chopping a rooster’s head off she doesn’t. I can’t say that I do, either.

  I turned on my bedside lamp and reached for a collection of essays by E. B. White, who is someone I reread every few years just to remind myself what good writing is.

  That was when the phone rang. The business line.

  “Hey, smart guy.” Same raspy voice and wet cough. Same sarcastic familiarity. “Get my message?”

  “That was totally unnecessary.”

  “I warned you not to mess with me.”