On The Devil's Side of Heaven

by Roger Peppercorn

  I hadn’t been expecting that question just yet and it threw me off for a beat. My eyes went a little too wide and both of them caught it.

  “What?” Butler asked.

  “Nothing… no, that’s not true, I’ve been staying at my sister’s and it just dawned on me they might get caught up in all of this,” I said with all the sincerity of an academy award winning actor. If only Hollywood could see me now. “You have any leads on this guy’s whereabouts? Or do I have to keep looking over my shoulder?”

  Butler shook his head and said, “We doubt you’re in danger at the moment. There was a lot of blood at the scene. It’s only a matter of time until we find his body.”

  Jordan flipped his notebook to a fresh page and asked, “Where is that again?”

  I hesitated again. They had thrown me off by the shift in their approach. “Ah… it’s out in Loma but I don’t really know the address. For that matter, I can’t even tell you how to get there. She lives pretty much off the grid. In fact, I’ve never actually driven there.”

  “Speaking of which, where is your sister at the moment?”

  I knew this was coming and had to tread carefully. Sheepishly I said, “She went to Florida to spend time with my ex and our kids. Jessica said just because I was divorced, didn’t mean she couldn’t still maintain a relationship with her niece and nephew.”

  “So, why are you here and not in Florida?”

  Just then it donned on me I owed Bill and Karen a call, so they could verify at least part of my story. It’s against the law to lie to a federal agent. Not to a cop, mind you. Them you can lie to all day long and not go to jail. It was rare that the FBI would hook someone up for lying, but it did serve as an effective bargaining tool with suspects and witnesses alike.

  I bowed my head and shrugged. “I’m not real proud of my drinking problem and my sister thought it would be a good idea to get away for a few days after the divorce.”

  Butler nodded like he agreed and Jordan just glared at me. I looked at Jordan and asked, “What department did you belong to before you joined Bureau?”

  “New York, 13th precinct.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Just shy of my pension.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “Why’d you quit?” he asked.

  It was a fair question and had we been in a bar I might have given him some of the broad strokes, but instead I said, “Never found the bottom of the bottle.”

  He nodded and in that moment, I thought that maybe he had some of the same kinds of skeletons in his closet.

  Butler asked me for Jessica’s number. I told him and then made a mental note to call her first and then Bill and Karen, otherwise the next time we talked it wouldn’t be so friendly.

  Jordan closed his notebook and said, “You’re supposed to get out of here today, I understand?”

  I blew out my breath. “That’s what they tell me.”

  Butler said, “Just be careful. Call us if you suspect you’re in any danger.”

  I nodded.

  They both turned to go. Butler walked out ahead of Jordan. As he was about to close the door, he looked back at and said, “Curious you never asked about the shooter.” He let that hang in the air and then said, “This was just a courtesy. Next time we talk, it will be under different circumstances.”

  I nodded at him as he shut the door.

  After they had gone, I eased out of bed, hobbled over to the door and listened for a minute to hear if they had left. Satisfied they weren’t going to pop back in, I hobbled back over to the bed and then reached under the pillows to use the burner phone Ronald had left me. Punching in Jessica’s number from memory, I waited through three rings before she picked it up.

  “Jess, it’s Walt.”

  “Wally, I’ve been so worried about you. Ronald called earlier to tell me what happened. Are you okay?”

  I was touched. Jessica only called me Wally when she was really worried or upset. “I’m fine. But listen, you may get a call or a visit from the FBI. When you do, just tell them you felt I needed to get away for a few days.”

  “The FBI?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as what it sounds. Just keep it simple and you’ll be fine. It might help if you screened your calls for a few days.”

  “Wally, you’re scaring me.”

  “Jessie, don’t worry. I’ll be fine and that thing that you called me about the other day needs to stay between us, okay?”

  “How’s Ronald doing?”

  “Right as rain.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look, I have to go now. Just be safe. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  I started to hang up when I heard her say, “Aren’t you going to ask about your kids?”

  My hand gripped the phone tighter. I could feel the heat rising up my neck. “Jessica, not now, okay?”

  “Fine,” she said angrily as she hung up the phone.

  I sat staring at the phone. I was both ashamed and angry at myself. My kids should have been my number one concern. But once again, they hadn’t been a concern or even a thought. When this was over I promised myself I would make changes, become a better dad, maybe, god-forbid, a better person. Perhaps even sober. But right now I had to worry about keeping myself out of the Gray Bar Hotel.

  Jordan’s threat had rattled me to the core. He had known I was holding back. The fact he had let it slide told me he was giving me a grace period to reevaluate my level of cooperation and support. To that end, I needed to get moving and check myself out if necessary.

  Shaking the thoughts away, I punched in the number for Wired Connections. Karen answered on the second ring, “Wired Connections Insurance.”

  “Karen, it’s Walt”

  “I have a good mind to fire you right now.”

  “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time. Someone tried to kill me and I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What do you mean, tried to kill you?”

  “Check the news for Grand Junction. In the meantime, the FBI is going to call you. When they do, just tell them I took a leave of absence.”

  “Wait… the FBI? Walter, what did you do?”

  “Nothing. Look, it was a professional hit and I have it on good authority that I have been just a target of opportunity.”

  “Slow down, you’re not making any sense. Wait, did you just say a professional hit? What are you in the mob now? Walt, why would a hitman try and kill you?” She paused and then said, “Jesus, you’re drinking again, aren’t you?”

  “Not now. I’ll explain later. I need you to run a check on an oil company called Common Core.”

  “Walt, I’m hanging up now, call back when you’re sober.”

  “KAREN!” I screamed. “I need you to focus. This is important because I have no idea what I stepped into but whatever it is, there are serious players involved. When you check the news, that guy in the bar was me and just so you know, the bastard tried to garrote me while I was taking a leak. And no Karen, I wasn’t drinking then and I’m not drinking now.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” she muttered. “Walt, I swear to god I am not going to prison for you. No offense, but we’re not good enough friends.”

  I gripped the phone and exhaled slowly. “I understand. Now, will you run this stuff to ground for me?”

  “Hold on, say that name again.”

  I told her, then asked her to run a check on the CEO. It was just a wild guess, but there was something about the stern looking man in the commercial that didn’t sit right. Call it gut instinct or drunk dreams. It was probably nothing but at the moment it felt real and I really didn’t have anything else to go on. I gave her his name and asked for a deep background. I could hear her scribbling down the information I had asked for.

  “Okay, but this isn’t over and you have a lot of explaining to do. That two-bit P.I. you hired is a worse drunk than you, and a liar to boot.”

  I closed my eyes and pinched
the bridge of my nose with my good hand to ward off the headache I felt coming on. “Karen, I know it was…”

  “He’s in fucking jail for drinking and driving!”

  “Ah shit. Karen, I’m sorry, but will you do this for me please?”

  “This is the last time!”

  “Last time, I promise. Karen, one more thing, please?”

  “What?” she practically yelled.

  “Jess is staying with Lori and the kids. Could you check on them? Make sure they're alright? Maybe look after them for a few days?”

  “Jesus, Walt, what did you do?” Bill asked. Karen had obviously put me on speaker phone.

  “It’s a long story Bill and when it’s over, I’ll tell you the whole thing. Just please look after them for a few days and tell the cops I needed some time off after the divorce.”

  “You want us to tell them about Ronald and Jessica? What he did to her?”

  “NO!” I yelled. “Just keep it simple. Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure,” they both said in unison.

  “Thanks,” I said and then hung up the phone.

  After I’d hung up, I started to check the closets for my clothes. When I didn’t find them, I buzzed the nurse’s station. A few minutes later a pretty brunette nurse with the name tag of Suzie sauntered into my room.

  “Did you need something?”

  “Yeah, where are my clothes?”

  “The police took them when you were admitted.”

  “Great.”

  “Why isn’t your hand bandaged?”

  I stopped looking for my clothes and turned to look at her. “I’m claustrophobic,” I deadpanned.

  She tilted her head to the side and said, “Doctor said you must keep it wrapped for a week. Now you just wait a minute and I’ll be back with a wrap for that hand.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and headed for the door.

  After she was gone, I called Ronald. He answered on the first ring. “You should be in bed, resting.”

  “Ronald, I don’t have time to banter right now. The FBI were here. I need you to bring me some clothes.”

  “Can’t.”

  “What’d you mean you can’t?”

  “I got a call this morning from someone who wants to meet.”

  “Back up, you got a call from someone who wants to meet? Who was it, your realtor? Because if it was, I would maybe put that off for a few days. What with all the new air-conditioning modifications you’ve made recently.”

  “Probably the hitter’s replacement or someone in management. I’m leaving pretty quickly so you're on your own. Try not to get shot.”

  “No! You can’t just meet them without backup. Bring me some clothes and we’ll go meet this person together.”

  “Sorry, but this is above your pay grade. I’ll call you later and we’ll get together. And don’t worry about little old me. Marcie will pick you up instead. I’ll make sure she has something more comfortable to wear.” Then he hung up.

  I demon dialed him for the next five minutes. Each time it went straight to voicemail. I swore and threw the phone against the wall. The phone shattered and fell to the floor. I fumed and was stomping around the room when Suzie the nurse came back to wrap my hand. She stood in the doorway holding a new gauze wrap in her hands, her face a mask of determination which moved straight into thinly concealed contempt when she saw the phone.

  “Ah, rickets.”

  Chapter 28

  Barry sat in the stolen SUV for the better part of the afternoon. The hit team he had seen earlier hadn’t returned. After he had received the text from Ronald, he began playing with his phone. First, he searched the various news sites, then he moved onto his email. Finally, Barry began to surf a music site for new independent bands. Since his cover was that of a traveling musician, he tried to keep up with the up-and-coming trends in music. His thoughts started to turn inward and drifted back to the first time he had met Ronald and the deeds that led to the dark world of murder for hire.

  Barry had been playing music since he was a boy. In high school, he and some friends had created a garage band. They played birthday parties and on occasion, dive bars that didn’t pay close attention to the age of their entertainment.

  When he was sixteen, Barry had seen his first gunfight play out in front of him. While the rest of the bar ran for cover, Barry continued to play. After the cordite started to clear, one man lay dead while his killer knocked back long neck bottles of beer. Barry had continued to play, oblivious to the man who had just shot and killed a fellow patron.

  He could still recall the features of the man as he played. The blood red button-down shirt had been starched and ironed. The sharp knife-like creases in the sleeves contrasted with the worn-out jeans. He wore black leather workman’s boots. The toes had a high gloss polish which reflected the neon lights. The two-day stubble stood out on his tanned face. His eyes had been coal-black and seemed to have no bottom. As the guy had approached the bar, Barry could see the sweat from the bottle glistening in the neon lights. Barry riffed out a tune as if he were in his bedroom. The man stood silently in front of him, his eyes roved over the length of his body, taking his measure. He lifted the beer in a mock toast as Barry ran his hand up the neck of the bass guitar.

  As Barry began to slow down the riff, the man approached the bar. He looked up into Barry’s eyes for fear or loathing of what he had done, but Barry kept playing, his fingers sliding up and down the neck of his bass while his other hand picked the strings. The man reached into his wallet, plucked a twenty dollar bill from the leather folds and then placed it on the bar. Barry simply nodded his head in thanks and continued to play.

  Later on, Barry would see the killer from time to time. Each time he would walk up to the bar and place another twenty dollars at his feet. And each time Barry would break from whatever tune the band was playing and make the bass guitar sing the same tune he had played that night, long ago, in a dive bar a million miles away.

  Barry would later learn the man’s name was Ronald Jacobs. Over time he had tried to forget the coal-black eyes, but he never forgot the first time he had seen the almost black blood seep from the bowels of a dying man.

  His first time as a killer took place in a Galveston bar. He hadn’t been working on a contract but was instead working the front door as a bouncer. A drunk had begun slapping the waitresses on their behinds every time they walked past. The owner, a man named Tim Saucer, had approached the drunk and tried to escort him outside but he wasn’t about to leave. The second time Tim tried to walk him outside, the drunk had reared back and backhanded him. Tim fell to the floor while his front teeth scattered like Chiclets. Bleeding and ashamed, Tim staggered to the front door and begged Barry to do something.

  Barry simply shrugged and then walked calmly into the bar. He picked up an empty longneck bottle from a table of coeds. The drunk was much bigger than Barry but as he was drunk and Barry was sober, the drunk never saw it coming. Barry swung the bottle into the back of the man’s head and then whipped it across his nose. Blood spewed into the air and landed on the bodies of the other patrons. He howled in pain and then staggered before he fell to one knee. His big hands covered his face as he tried to stem the flow of blood from his broken nose.

  Barry cuffed the man’s left arm and tried to steer him to the exit. The drunk staggered and then reached into his front pocket for a boot knife. With his free hand, the drunk flicked the blade open and tried to slash Barry across the face.

  Barry saw the blade at the last second and, letting go, he leaned back to avoid the shiny blade as it passed in front of him. The tip of the blade caught his cheek as it passed by. Barry stumbled back, his body knocking into tables as his feet tried to gain purchase. The drunk took the opening and was on him in a flash. Their bodies collided as they went to the floor. The knife slashed back and forth as they rolled around on the ground. Barry kicked out and caught the drunk in the groin. He howled in pain as Barry scrambled away, his hands g
rabbing a hold of longneck bottles as he backed away.

  By now, the bar’s patrons were in full retreat as they moved to get clear of the fight. Barry regained his balance and moved forward with a beer bottle in both hands. His left hand swung hard and caught the drunk across the temple. He stumbled back against a booth and then he was up and stabbing at Barry. However, his altered state made his attempts clumsy and slow.

  Barry parried the knife once with a bottle while his other hand swung strong and true, catching the drunk across his other temple. Bleeding and winded, the drunk tried once more to finish the fight. His knife hand slashed out but Barry calmly stepped to his right, making the knife go by harmlessly. As the knife went by, Barry stepped up and began to pummel him without mercy until his head was bloody and disfigured. Heaving and sucking in lungfuls of air, Barry looked around. The bar was now empty. The music from the jukebox was loud inside the empty bar. He stumbled to his left, catching himself against a table. Over the music Barry could hear sirens: their whoop, whoop sounds getting nearer by the second. He wiped the blood and sweat from his face. Then Barry walked back over to where his victim lay in a bloody heap. He saw the knife lying near the man’s feet. Reaching down, he picked it up and then rolled him over. Barry checked to see if he was alive. He could now see bubbles forming around his nose. Then, without thinking, he sunk the blade of the knife all the way to the hilt in the man’s chest. The bloody bubbles stopped forming as his body relaxed and the life force that had defined the man fell away into the ether of the neon lights.

  When the cops came, witnesses would later say Barry was just doing his job. And nearly all would tell the detectives and patrolmen the same thing: the drunk had swung first and Barry was just defending himself. For his part, Barry simply said he had impaled himself on the knife when he fell to the floor.

  A month later, Barry found himself playing bass guitar in a rundown blues bar in Sacramento. He changed his name to Blue Blood Jenkins. It was the same name he now used whenever he was on stage. After the last set, he saw the man he had taken to calling his number one fan. As always, he approached the bar. He wore the same blood red button-down shirt that he had worn the first time they had met, only this time it lacked the sharp creases along the sleeves and he had rolled his cuffs up to just below the elbow. And just like every other time he had seen Barry play, he placed a twenty dollar bill on the bar.