by Ryan Sayles
“Good girl,” Willibald says. Molly leaves and it is just us widowers left.
Willibald turns to me with the pace of a clock hand, ticking off the seconds of the universe with the authority of time itself. He says, “Getting your hands on someone, now there is something else we have in common.”
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
I nod and grunt. He smirks, and to my surprise he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a flask. “Something tells me this place ain’t gonna mix our coffee right.” He uncaps the flask, drinks. Hands it to me. I take a pull. Scotch. Good scotch.
“I smell gun powder on you,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Well...”
“Oh, bah,” he says, waves a dismissive hand. “Just say you’re welcome. A man my age can’t do the things he should anymore, even to my detriment. Those shitheads would have gotten clean away with it if it fell on me to avenge to my wife.”
“You’re welcome.” Quiet. I’m not used to thanks.
“That’s a hell of thing, you know. As old as I am, unable to even the score for the woman I love. I pray you never feel this weak. This helpless. Like a baby. It tears a man apart.”
“Cancer stole my wife,” I say, not wanting to think about it. “Ate her from the inside out. I do know what you mean by being helpless. In my early twenties I was that helpless. I fought in a war. I killed men. But I couldn’t kill cancer. I never will.”
“I see,” he answers, and it is good enough for me.
No conversation for a time. Then, out of the blue, he says, “Now, there’s a concept for you, all right. Getting your hands on someone.”
I turn to him. “It’s a hell of a thing.”
He never meets my eye, just looks at that wall; at that distant place he has been seeing so much of tonight. “I arrived in Europe forty-three days after Normandy fell to the Allies. I was eighteen, fresh out of basic. Eudora and I got married on furlough and I headed straight into the dragon’s mouth. She got herself a job at a war bakery; said she’d kiss every pie box that came off the line and went my way.
“Those fucking Krauts on the Eastern Front, freezing to death while they fought the Russians, they raped everything they came across. I heard their head Nazi doctor out there felt that raping young women was an acceptable morale deterrent against jacking off. Kept the homosexual desires at bay, as well. Can you believe it?
“I was eighteen, born and raised in Wyoming. Never really crossed my mind...the things evil men do. You get in war and all of a sudden whatever nightmares you had in the darkest parts of sleep become commonplace reality. You smell them. They soak into your clothes; keep you damp with their filth. They get their stink on you like mud in your boot treads. Rape as a moral deterrent. Only the fucking Nazis.”
Another man’s story about rape. Great.
“The Western Front seemed to be spared of the brunt of it, especially by comparison. But it happened. I know the French women got it. I saw a poor gal who had been beaten before they did that to her...and I grew up. Right then. Right there. Boot camp be damned. Going to war be damned as well. I matured into a harder man than the war could have otherwise made me. She wasn’t particularly attractive. Not even that thin. But she had the parts for sex, so someone forced it. I remember how she just grasped her groin and moaned like she had been set on fire for a minute and put out. Left to suffer until Death swooped in with its talons. Just never came. Not that way, anyhow. She just agonized. And I remember how, even through her black and swollen eyes, her tears fell. It was raining out, and I knew the difference between the raindrops and her sorrow.
“Someone needed to pay.”
He rubs his face the way I do: a long and drawn-out motion. A weary hand pressing hard.
“I waited. Found her in the infirmary a few days later. Did Graham ever tell you I could draw?”
“He said you made a living doing book covers, movie posters, custom work and the like.”
“Yes.” Willibald gritted his teeth. “She described the man to me. I drew him.”
He met my eyes. There, in those old windows to his old soul, I saw that thirst for revenge floating at the top. “And I found him.
“Several other squads had been drafted to take a few remaining rats’ nests just to the north of where we were. A few weeks had gone by and I snuck off every chance I got to show the picture around. Something inside burned. I don’t know what. Maybe nothing more than righteousness, if I may be so bold as to claim it.
“Every prisoner we took in. I held the drawing up to him, trying to force the pieces to fit. The curve of his eyebrows, the way his earlobes went straight into his head rather than dangled. Free as opposed to attached, a doctor once told me. Anyways, his were attached. Sharp point to his nose but his nostrils flared. She said he snorted. That sound was a trigger for her, I guess. She’d hear it in her memory and curl up. Some Kraut snorting. Lord save us.
“But those squads that cleared the rats’ nests, they came back with a good bunch of yellow bellies who just dropped their rifles where they were and stood, arms reaching for the damn sky. What a bunch of pussies.
“Word came back real fast that our boys were marching a line of Krauts into camp. Said the line was as long as the Mississippi but smelled twice as foul and only spoke Pig Latin. So I waited. Bargained with another private to take my duty and I’d take his in the midnight shift so I could be there. Drawing in hand. Of course, I had Bessie, my BAR in the other.”
Browning Automatic Rifle. Good man.
Willibald leaned back in his seat, smiled just enough to betray how smug he was in his moment, and said, “Our boys marched one hundred and nineteen Krauts back into camp. The man I wanted was number one hundred and ten.”
“No doubt you had him arrested for war crimes.”
“I donkey kicked him outta the line while hollerin’ rapist. Bastard hit the mud and tried to scurry away from me. Crawlin’ on all fours. The way he did a lot of things, I suppose. The other Krauts just froze stiff, probably worried that we were gonna treat them the same way we had heard they had treated the Jews or whatever.
“Anyway, some officer came chargin’ up, wantin’ to know what I was doing. I showed him the drawing, told him about the woman and all, pointed to that guy. Kraut started to cry. A bunch of Johnnys had come over, some to corral the Kruats and some to see what it was and if’n they could get in on it. The brass looked back and forth, back and forth.
“Looked at the Kraut and said lemme see your chin. You see, the French gal told me he had one of them clefs in his chin, deep as a canyon. The Kraut didn’t want to show off his chin at all, and a lot of people thought that was guilt, pure and simple. But I had heard the snorting. He’d been snorting since he come walkin’ by, the pervert. And I said so.
“I think I was the first to fire, but by the end there was so damn many of us who did it’s impossible to tell. Anyone who didn’t know what was happenin’ took cover. Thought Hitler himself was leading a charge against us. Lord save us I got in a world of hurt over that killin’. But I never apologized. And I got the right man. No time in the brig either, I might add. Right is right. For me, that proves it.
“Richard, this world is fucked up, and the greatest and worst thing God ever did was give us free will. That Kraut used his to destroy a woman’s life, and I used mine to make it so he couldn’t do it again. Does that make me evil?”
“No.”
“I never felt that way. ’Course, the wife, she used her free will to ignore the question the one time I asked her ’bout it. I decided not to think too hard on what her answer mighta been.”
“Probably just moved that her husband wanted to defend the honor of a woman he’d never met. You went the extra mile for that French gal.”
He laughed. One good hack. “Yeah. Sure.” He drifted off for a while, said, “Yeah, sure,” once or twice more.
Finally, while looking elsewhere, he said quietly, “Sometimes I worry I set somethin’ in motion that day. While that Krau
t earned the execution, I do admit what I did was out of line for what we as civilized people would call ‘justice.’ I worry whatever I set into motion that day...it waited patiently just like I did as that tour of prisoners came into camp. It waited patiently, and fucked me royally tonight.”
“Nah,” I said, weak as it was. Truth be told I started ticking off the laundry list of things I had done which came around to give my wife cancer.
He didn’t say anything in return, and we just sat there for quite some time and pondered how we may have killed our wives.
7
Just before five a.m., Monday
A few hours’ sleep is all that will come.
It’s all I have time for anyways. I get up and turn on the stove burner. Make coffee the old fashioned way. Bottle of whiskey, spike the joe. Morning’s first cigarette. I splash some water in my face and set my weapon down on the table. Take it apart. One hand begins to wipe down the cylinder and barrel, the other dials Howard Michigan’s home telephone line.
His cell phone and business numbers have voice mail. His home line has no such thing. It rings. He forgot to disconnect, just like I told him. On ring seven he picks up.
“Richard, you filthy cocksucker—” his voice crawls along the line like it’s the first thing he’s said in an eon. Husky and thick with sleep, I can just see him on the other end slowly rubbing his forehead where a migraine is sprouting.
“Hey, I had a dream about you.” My first words of the day as well, deep and tired.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t you want to hear my about my dream? It was nothing gay. Remember when I was a rookie and you’d have me hang out in the patrol car while you’d run inside and fuck somebody’s wife? Well, in my dream I was in the car but it was a Zamboni for some reason and you were selling vacuums and then out of nowhere monkeys—”
“Goodbye, Richard.”
“Hang on. Seriously. Are you sober now?”
“Yes. And if I’m not asleep again really fast, and I mean really fucking fast, I just know a migraine will be kicking up and this time it’ll be all—”
“Tell me about this Clarence Petticoat.”
“Damn you, Buckner.” Deep breath. “Are you just gonna come over here and knock on my door if I cut you off?”
“What do you think?”
“Fine. One minute.”
“One minute,” I say.
A moment to recollect as he sighs with annoyance. I heard that a lot when we used to roll together. “I guess I never knew he was widowed. He always struck me as the playboy type. He hired me a few times to dig around on some broads he was dating. Usual kind of trim who hangs on rich men that they wouldn’t touch if they weren’t rich. Fake blonde, fake tits, decent legs, got their teeth fixed, low self-esteem and trying to make up for it now that surgery has made them pretty. He always paid on time. Was easy to work with. Didn’t like no for an answer. You know he’s a real estate guy. He’s got an office up in the Burkhardt complex off of I-50. I haven’t done anything for him in a while. There. Happy?”
“Mostly. Send me a list of the women you checked out.”
“Fine. Later.”
“Later is good for me. Thanks, Howard. Sleep tight.”
“Choke on a dick, Richard.” Click. Silence.
That’s the Howard Michigan I know. I finish cleaning the gun and shower. I take a handful of aspirin. I don’t really need it right now, but it’s going to be a long day. Might as well get the jump on whatever pain is coming.
Clevenger calls as I’m driving to breakfast.
“Hello, Graham.”
“Got some news about last night,” he says, sounding a world more tired than I feel.
“Do tell.”
“A friend in Ballistics stayed up through the night to examine the projectiles from last night. Same gun killed both Moss and Grandma.” He pauses. Shifts his tone. “Richard, the words kill and Grandma...”
“I know, buddy. I hate how ugly this is.”
Graham coughs the way men do when they’re trying to avoid sounding weak. “The two guys on the porch with Moss, I don’t remember names. One was shot in the chest. The bullet nicked an artery and a lung. Good shot. Dead. The other was ruled dead before he was shot in the thigh—flesh wound only. Seems he was struck in the head by something firm, possibly metal and punched in the face so hard it knocked his head into the railing. Cranial bleed.
“The gunner in the car was ID’d as Philip ‘Shortie’ Freeman. He’s a punk out of the northwestern end with gang affiliations and two violent felonies under his belt already. He’s nineteen. Covered in Carnivore Messiah tattoos. My detective said he took photos at the morgue and brought them to the Gang Enforcement bureau. The boys over there knew Shortie by name. Read his ink. Fuck that kid.”
“Was he your original trigger man?”
“Both the driver and the passenger are pinning everything on him. Convenient for the survivors, but I think forensics will prove it. Shortie was hit once in the back of the head by an unknown caliber as they were driving off. The bullet passed through, grazed the passenger seat headrest and exited through the front windshield. Haven’t recovered it. I’m guessing it was a .44 Magnum by how most of his head is gone.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny, my friend,” I say, pulling into a spot at a greasy spoon.
“Well, Shortie’s friends treated him with gangbanger reverence. They took him to the ER at Regional. The driver honked a few times and took off. ER security got the plate off of security video, called PD immediately. A patrolman spotted the car heading northbound. Our guys did a felony stop.”
I step inside the seat-yourself establishment and select a booth where I can watch the front door, the short order kitchen and my car. Habit.
“We recovered two Mac 10’s, both with fifty round drum barrels. No wonder he was able to spray the houses,” Clevenger says. “There was also a pile of shell casings in the floorboard. Probably from both shoots.”
“Street sweepers,” I say, scanning the menu. “I assume Collins is working this as well?”
“Yes.”
“Has he questioned them yet?”
“They only said three things: Shortie did everything, we did nothing and we want lawyers.”
“So be it.”
Graham exhales long. “Richard, one thing though.”
I’m weighing the difference between a bacon omelet and corned beef hash, say, “Sure, buddy. One thing.”
“The gang bureau has already heard talk of retaliation. Hopefully the Messiahs blame Moss’s gang and they make our work easy. But just because I’m paranoid, I want you to keep that fat head of yours low until this blows over. Got me?”
“If they somehow figure I’m the shooter out of all the enemies they’ve ever made, let it come. But for you, alright, buddy. I’ll call this evening. I’m going to need some stuff from you.”
“Okay. Thanks again, Richard.”
“Hey. Every now and then one friend needs another to put some serious hurtin’ on two rival gangs. Don’t mention it.”
We hang up. My waitress comes and I order.
Next on the list: Carla Gabler, the rapist’s girlfriend.
8
0823 hours, Monday
I pinch another butt from my cigarette out the window and watch the house.
I parked across the street a few doors up. The neighborhood was blue collar back in the ’70s. Now, it’s ring-around-the-collar. Nothing fancy; matchboxes and one-story ranches up and down. Enough front yard to have a bad lawn, enough backyard to put a baby pool and chain up a pitbull.
Driveways big enough for two cars nose to ass, cracked sidewalks and concrete. Dreams to match.
Carla Gabler is standing at the edge of the yard as a sixteen-year-old girl hands her a toddler from the back seat of a still-running car. Carla receives the child and smiles, showers the little girl in kisses. The sixteen-year-old hands over a ratty diaper bag and leans ove
r to give a very fake kiss to Carla. Both their cheeks touch and I can see Carla mime a smooch into thin air before the sixteen-year-old hops back in the car. She lights a smoke before she guns it off the curb. No looking back.
I see Carla stand there for a moment, radiant with affection for the innocent package in her arms. The little girl gives the love right back. The sight of the two of them together against the backdrop of this shitty neighborhood, the four square feet of brown lawn Carla has with her rental shoebox, the overgrown dead tree in the neighbor’s yard, the twenty-pound piles of dog shit in the other neighbor’s yard, the ramshackle chain link fence that seems to endlessly divide one house after another, all the accouterments that scream white trash, those two together are love.
The little girl has a plastic grocery sack in her hand. I see blonde and brunette doll hair hanging out. The girl slings her arm through the handle loophole in the bag and pulls it up to her shoulder as if it were a purse. In Carla’s arms her feet dangle and she kicks them playfully.
Carla’s face shifts some and she turns the little girl over in her arms to examine her diaper. Carla finds something there and becomes upset. It’s not the look of a person who realizes they have to change a diaper, but rather the look of someone who realizes the diaper should have been changed an hour ago.
They go inside. I put my gear shifter to D and head out.
An hour later I knock on Carla’s front door.
It cracks open, limited by the security chain. I see a green eye poke around the wood. Immediately smell years of cigarette smoke.
“Not interested,” she says, her voice husky from all those cigarette smoke years.
“Ma’am, I’m not trying to sell anything—”
“Piss off.” The door shuts. I stand there for a moment. I hate it when this happens. I knock again.
The door swings back open and the green eye returns. “Just so you know, mister, this neighborhood doesn’t buy vacuums, magazine subscriptions or cookies and has no need for lawn care guys or a new roof. And some of these doors will just open and start shooting so you should just squeeze your linebacker ass back into whatever jalopy you came in and drive back north of the river where people got the money to have Vogue and mint cookies delivered. Got it? I’m doin’ you a favor here.”