The Best American Mystery Stories 3

by Edited by James Ellroy

  His two kids ran ahead to his Lexus, and he dodged around the end of a pickup truck hauling an open trailer with a lawn mower on the back. There came a man’s voice, loud and insistent, “. . . dummy, how in hell could you drop that ball? It was an easy out!”

  Richard froze at what he saw. George Winn, landscaper in town— among other things, some legal, some not so legal — had his boy’s T-shirt twisted up in a large fist and was shaking the poor guy back and forth. Tears were streaming down the child’s face, and his ball cap was on the ground. George was huge, with a beer gut that poked out from underneath a dark green T-shirt and a beard that went halfway down his chest. The hand that was wrapped around the boy’s T-shirt was stained with dirt and grease. Richard stepped forward. “Hey, George, lighten up, okay? It’s just a game.”

  George turned, his face looking surprised, like he could not believe anyone would approach him for something so insignificant. “Hunh? What did you say, Dick?”

  Richard hated being called Dick but let it go for now. “George, c’mon, it’s just a game. Your kid did all right.”

  George let go of his son’s shirt, and the boy quickly went over to pick up his hat. The older man stepped closer and Richard caught a whiff of beer. “You looking for trouble, Dick?”

  Richard’s hands seemed to start tingling, like they were being suddenly energized by the adrenaline. Richard recognized the sensation, tried to dampen it. “No, I’m just telling you that your kid’s a good player. Hey, he’s a trooper. Why don’t you —”

  George came over, punched a finger into Richard’s chest, making him step back. “No, he ain’t no trooper. He’s a loser, writer-man, so back off. Unless you want to settle this right here and now.”

  A horn honked, and he recognized the tone. His kids were in the Lexus, urging him to hurry up so they could get home. A door slammed and he saw the small figure of Leo in the front seat of the truck. Richard stepped back, made sure his back wasn’t turned to George.

  “No, I don’t want to settle this right here and now.”

  George snorted in satisfaction. “Good. Then why don’t you go home to your kiddie books and leave me and my boy the frig alone.”

  Richard walked over to his Lexus as the truck backed up and roared away, the front right fender brushing his pants leg as it bailed out of the parking lot. He got to his Lexus and sat still for a moment as Sam talked more about the game and Olivia asked what he thought would be for dinner tonight, and it was like their voices were coming at him through thick cotton, for the only voice he could really make out was George’s.

  ~ * ~

  Dinner that night was the usual rolling chaos of dishes being prepared, voices being raised, the television set on, and the phone ringing, with boys and girls calling for Sam and Olivia — and was it a genetic quirk among children everywhere, Richard thought, that they always called at dinner time? — and he managed to give Carla a quick hug and kiss as she heated up a tuna fish casserole.

  “Besides losing, how was the game?”

  “Great,” he said. “Sam pitched well. Got three strikeouts. Your day okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, handing over a head of romaine lettuce to him. “Wash this up, will you?”

  “Sure,” he said, looking over at the trim figure of his blondhaired wife, her tight jeans and black flat shoes, and the light blue polo shirt that had white script on the left reading central street travel. The casserole smelled all right, but he remembered a number of years ago, when Carla would prepare dishes like baked ziti and manicotti and a lobster fettucine . . . my, how good that had been. But all those food dishes had been left behind, years ago, when they had come to Vermont.

  Olivia was at the kitchen counter, drawing a horse, and piped up, “I think Daddy almost got into a fight today.”

  That got Carla’s sharp attention. “He did, did he?”

  He started running the cold water, washing the lettuce leaves. “No, he didn’t. It wasn’t a fight; it was just a discussion.”

  “That true, Olivia?” Carla asked, her voice still tense.

  “Dunno, mom,” she said, still working on her horse. “The car doors were closed, but the other man was pushing his finger into Daddy.”

  “Oh, he was, was he?” she said, her brown eyes flashing at him. “I thought you said things went great.”

  “They did,” he said, washing another leaf of lettuce.

  “And who was this guy, and what was going on?” she demanded.

  “Nothing much,” Richard said, patting dry the leaves of lettuce on a stretch of paper towel. “We were just talking about the game and about sports dads. That sort of thing. He got a little heated up, and that was that. I just tried to remind him that it was just a family game. That’s all.”

  “No trouble then,” she asked.

  He smiled at his demanding wife. “No trouble.”

  ~ * ~

  Some hours later he woke up in bed with Carla, staring up at the ceiling. He rolled over, checked the time on the red numerals of the nearby clock radio. It was 1:00 a.m. Time to go. He slowly got out of bed, sitting up and letting his feet touch the floor, hoping he wouldn’t disturb his wife. But Carla was too good.

  She gently touched his bare back. “What’s up, hon?” she whispered, shifting closer to him in the darkness.

  “Nothing much,” he said, leaning over to a chair, picking up his pants and a pullover.

  “Getting dressed?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Gotta see a guy about something.”

  “Something bad?”

  He reached behind him, stroked her face. “No, nothing bad. Just seeing a guy about something. No big deal. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “ ‘Kay,” she murmured. “You be careful, and you come back to us. Capisce?”

  “Capisce,” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

  ~ * ~

  A half-hour later he was on the other side of town, at a small dirt park near the wooden covered bridge that spanned the Bellamy River. He shifted in his seat, wincing some at the uncomfortable feeling of the nine-millimeter Browning pistol stuck in his rear waistband. It was a quiet night, and he leaned his elbow outside the open window. The night sound of crickets and frogs were pleasant enough, but he remembered other night sounds as well. Traffic, always moving, always going. Horns and sirens and brakes squeaking. Music and the rattle-roar of the subway and people talking, shouting, laughing. And behind it all, the constant hum of an island filled with millions of people, always moving, always dealing, always doing something. That sense of energy, of being plugged in, of being part of something, God, he missed it as much as the faraway scent the day before of the cigar . . .

  Lights coming across the bridge. The headlights flashed twice and then the lights dimmed as the car pulled up beside him. He stepped out and kept the hood and engine block between himself and the visitors.

  “Richard?” came the familiar voice from the dark car. One Charlie Moore, and once again he wished he could be in a place where he would never hear that voice again.

  “The same,” he said, relaxing, bringing his hand to his side from where it had been, at the rear of his shirt.

  “Glad to see you,” he said. “Have a visitor here. Do you mind?”

  “Do you care if I mind or not?”

  A laugh. “Nope, I guess not.”

  The footsteps came toward his Lexus, and a voice cautioned, “Watch it, light coming on.” He moved his head away and a small battery-powered lamp was turned on and was then placed on the hood of his car. In the small but bright light he made out the faces of two men, one familiar, the other a stranger. The familiar one said, “Time for introductions. Bob Tuthill, Department of Justice, please meet Richard Dow. Formerly known as Ricky ‘the Rifle’ Dolano.”

  Tuthill just nodded. He had on a dark suit, white shirt, and red necktie. His companion was dressed more comfortably, in jeans and a black turtleneck shirt. Ri
chard said, “Charlie, what’s going on?”

  Tuthill spoke up. “What’s going on is another trial, set to start in August.”

  “Where?”

  “California. Two days, maybe three.”

  “Who are you guys after?”

  “Mel Flemmi,” Charlie said. “Used to be in your neck of the woods, then got into trouble in San Diego. The government needs to prove a pattern of criminal conduct, which is where you come in, testifying about what he did in Jersey. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  “Nope,” Richard said.

  Tuthill shook his head. “Sorry, Ricky, that was —”

  “Richard,” he interrupted. “The name is Richard Dow. Go on.”

  Tuthill looked over at Charlie in exasperation and said, “What I was saying is that you answered too quickly. Saying there wouldn’t be a problem is a given, ‘cause you know where we’ve got you. Set up in this little piece of paradise is part of the deal, and so is your testifying when we say so. But I don’t like the way you answered Mr. Moore so quickly. What I need to know is that we’re going to have your full faith and cooperation in testifying against Flemmi. Understood?”

  Richard folded his arms, feeling his breathing tighten, just like when he was face to face with that moron George Winn at the high school parking lot. He said, “Look, Mel Flemmi is an animal. I know enough about what he did so you guys could put him away until the next millennium, even without bringing up whatever he did in San Diego. So yeah, I don’t have a problem with testifying against him. Little slug, his own teenage niece started doing drugs, started staying out late in the streets, and he whacked her, personally. So she wouldn’t bring shame to his family. So that’s the kind of guy he is, and so here’s the story. I don’t have a problem testifying against him. That good enough for you, Tuthill?”

  A little smile came across the man’s face. “Nice talk from someone accused of committing eleven murders in his career.”

  “Accused,” Richard said. “Never convicted.”

  This time, Tuthill laughed and turned to Charlie. “What is it with these wise guys? Man, they flip and testify at the drop of a hat. The old-timers in my office, they said there used to be a time when guys like this would rather serve ten, twenty, or thirty years before being accused of being a rat. They getting soft or what?”

  Richard tightened his arms against his chest. “I don’t know about any ‘they.’ All I know is that I found out my boss was cooperating with clowns like you. So I cut my own deal, to protect myself and my family. Loyalty’s a two-way street, and Pm not going to Leavenworth for life for some guy who wants to get free on my back. “

  Tuthill laughed. “Whatever. Moore, I’m ready to go back. Oh, Richard, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  Tuthill leaned over the hood of the car. “Some of your compatriots over the years, they’ve embarrassed the department over side deals they had going on while they were in the program. Your job, what is it? A children’s book writer?”

  “That’s what they gave me,” Richard said.

  “And the publicity problem . . . ?” Tuthill asked.

  “You should know,” Richard said. “I write under a pseudonym. The books are for two- and three-year-olds. Not much chance of many fan letters. There’s no photo on the book jackets; they say the author lives in California. The locals, they don’t care. This is Vermont. You could sacrifice goats to Lucifer in your spare time, and nobody’d care, as long as you don’t keep your neighbors up with the noise.”

  “How charming,” Tuthill said. “Which brings me to my original point. Other guys like you, they’ve gotten bored with their agreement. They’ve decided to get back to their original business, like loan sharking and gambling and breaking arms and legs. Which means sleazy defense lawyers get to jump all over their character, and whether or not their testimony is truthful.”

  “How interesting,” Richard said.

  “Wait, it gets better. So what I’m telling you is that your friggin’ nose better be clean. No violence, no threat of violence, not even a parking violation. This trial is important, quite important, and I’m not going to let some stoolie killer like you spoil it for me. ‘Cause if you do, you and your family will be moving. How’d you like to run a pig farm in the middle of Nebraska?”

  Richard said, “I like it here. You won’t have a problem.”

  “Good,” he said. “Moore, I’m ready to head back.”

  “Sure,” Charlie said. “I’ll be right there.”

  When the sound of a car door being slammed reached them both, Charlie sighed. “Sorry. Young guy, new in his job, wants to make his bones. Sorry about all that yapping and such.”

  “Not your fault,” Richard said, letting his arms relax.

  “Still...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Listen well to what he said, Richard. Except for one little mark against your record since you moved here, you’ve done okay. Keep it that way, or he will transfer you out to a pig farm. Your wife, your kids, they’ve adjusted over the years here, haven’t they. I don’t think they’d like moving again.”

  Richard said, “You let me worry about my family. And that so-called black mark against my record, that was bogus, and you know it. Besides, I had only been out here a month. I was still adjusting.”

  Charlie laughed. “You broke the headlights on some guy’s car with a baseball bat and threatened to do the same to his teeth. Doesn’t sound too bogus to me.”

  Richard smiled. “He stole a parking space from me at the shopping center. Look, I’ve got the message, loud and clear. I’ll be a good little boy.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “Here, I’ve got two things for you.” Charlie reached into his pocket and took out a computer disk, which he tossed over to Richard. He caught it with no problem.

  “Your next book,” Charlie said. “Lulu the Seasick Sea Lion.”

  “Marvelous. What’s the other thing you’ve got for me?”

  “This,” Charlie said, handing over a plastic shopping bag, full and bulging. “Some souvenirs from your old haunts. Cheeses and sausages and pepperonis and spices and sauces. A little bit of everything. I figured you still missed some of that old-time food, don’t you.”

  Richard was surprised at how much his mouth watered. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Charlie picked up the little lamp, switched it off. “Well, don’t let it be said that the U.S. Marshall’s Office doesn’t have a little consideration. I’ll be seeing you, Richard.”

  “Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” he said, now smelling the delicious scents coming up from the bag. His stomach began grumbling, and he hefted the bag a couple of times as he waited until the other car left the small lot. Richard waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then he walked a few yards to the beginning of the covered bridge. His feet echoed on the old wooden planks. He leaned over and heard the rushing of the Bellamy River below him, and then took the bag and threw it into the river.

  He sighed, rubbed at his face. That was the only way. To follow the rules and survive, and never, absolutely never, dress or smoke or eat or do anything like you once did back home, because they were out there, still out there in the shadows, bent on revenge, and he didn’t want to raise a single scent for their benefit.

  He looked at the river for a couple of minutes, and then went back to his car and drove home.

  ~ * ~

  At home he was in the upstairs hallway, heading to the bedroom, when he heard a murmuring noise coming from Sam’s room. The door was ajar and he could make out a bluish light coming from inside. Sam was curled up on his side, his eyes closed, dressed in light gray pajama bottoms. On a dresser at the foot of the bed was a small color TV, and Richard made out a baseball game being played. He reached up to turn it off when a sleepy voice said, “No, Dad, don’t. . . still watching it. . .”

  “Sam, it’s almost three in the morning.”

  “I know . . . The Red Sox are in Seattle . . . it�
�s gone extra innings ...”

  Richard looked at a little graphic in the corner of the television picture. “Sam, the score is zero to zero, and they’re in the eighteenth inning.”

  “Mom said I could watch the game till it was over.”

  Richard shut the little TV off. “And I’m saying it’s just a game, okay? You need to get to sleep.”

  No answer. Just the soft noise of his boy, breathing. From the hallway light he made out posters of baseball players up on the walls, all of them Red Sox. He shrugged. He wished the boy would at least follow a winning team, like the Mets or the Yankees, but what could one expect. He bent down to kiss Sam’s forehead.