Murder, He Wrote

by R. S. Higham

  “Here’s the clincher, not long after you left, some guy walks in, arms hanging low like an ape, one eyebrow raised like he was looking down on us all, think he was drunk already. He starts shouting, I don’t know what about but the feller behind the bar comes out, tries calmin’ him down but he shoves him aside and swaggers over to this waitress, the one with the face like a punching bag? Well his grabs her waist and starts whispering to her, by the looks of it his breath wasn’t too fresh as she tries pulling away so he grabs one of the pints she’s holdin’ an’ pours it all down her shirt, well by this time I was real mad so I go over to him an’ I say “You got a problem buddy?” well he drops the broad an’ starts spitting in my face and cussin’. He starts pushing me, layin’ his hands on me like I’m his property, well I didn’t like that, didn’t like that at all, so I punch him square in the nose. He stumbles back a bit falls into some tables an’ I go to check on the broad. Whilst we’re talking he comes behind me, taps my shoulder an’ smashes this bottle across my face. Well the woman screamed, the bartender shouts about phoning the police and last I saw is him runnin’ out the door.”

  James was lost for words. He breathed deeply whilst he collected his thoughts. “And Kate, she was OK?”

  “Huh?”

  “The waitress.”

  “Fine, I think she knew the guy.”

  “Her boyfriend no doubt”. James thought. “Luckily this guy got there before he could give her another shiner.”

  “Anyway if you don’t mind, I’m hittin’ the hay.”

  “Sure, sorry, thanks for telling me, she’s a friend, I appreciate you helping her out, you didn’t have to.”

  “I know I didn’t.”

  “Really, I owe you one.”

  6

  James woke at 07:15. He didn’t know what time he managed to get to sleep but it couldn’t have been before two or three in the morning. The bed next to him, where Stacey slept, was empty. Two nurses were changing it.

  “What happened to the man in that bed?” He asked one of them.

  “He checked out about fifteen minutes ago. He left a note for you there.” She motioned towards the bedside table.

  meet at reds tonite

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll go and inform the police you’re awake now. Are you ready to talk to them?” She asked.

  “I’d forgotten about that,” he hadn’t thought it was necessary to report it to the police but he didn’t want to seem rude, “sure.”

  A few moments later a rather rotund police officer came into the room. With him was, James guessed, a sketch artist. He'd written about this sort of thing since his interest in thrillers began when he'd watch day-time crime dramas with his stay-at-home mum. They pulled up a chair next to his bed and the police officer began by telling him his name, it was Randal.

  “So, can you tell me exactly what happened?” Randal asked.

  “Mugging gone wrong I assume, the guy got flustered, caught me with his knife and here I am. I didn’t have any money to start with and I’ll have even less once I get out of here”

  “No medical insurance?” James shook his head,

  “that’s all there is to it, I really don’t want to press charges.” The police officer looked more fed up than surprised, like he’d come all this way for nothing.

  “His head was shaved, he had blotchy red skin, was wearing a hooded top. I’m sure all the meth-heads fit this description.”

  “If you don’t report it I can’t do anything about it.” The policeman stopped him.

  “That’s fine, sorry to have wasted your time.” James’s mind flickered onto his novel or lack of to be precise. Maybe he could incorporate the mugging into his book, now that he knew what a stab wound felt like first-hand writing about it would be easy.

  “I hope you get well soon.” The policeman rose and marched to the door. The sketch artist looked the most dejected, he obviously liked his work, they both shuffled out of the room like a pair of scolded dogs.

  After having his wound re-dressed and he himself dressed back into yesterday’s clothes he was given a course of antibiotics from the Doctor who pleasantly added,

  “you don’t know what could have been on the end of that knife,” funny, they always have a way of putting your mind at ease.

  By this time the minute hand was crawling up to 12:00 PM, he called a taxi from the hospital to take him back to the apartment where he could picture himself soaking in the tub. He’d try to do some writing, any writing at all, and later on watch some prime time television along with a snooze on the couch. Sounded like a plan. Although, he would most likely skip the middle part, his sudden ailment had given him an excuse to slack off, not that he needed one usually.

  “Where you headed, pal?” The flat-capped man behind the wheel chirped waking him from his train of thought.

  James crouched into the taxi clutching his stomach and hissed – “Ocean Apartments, Rochester Boulevard,” – through gritted teeth. The man’s eyes appeared in the rear-view mirror catching James’s own. He swallowed what small amount of spit lingered in his dry mouth and stammered a “thank you” and smiled his colourless lips. He looked like death. And he felt like it too, He wanted nothing more than to relax in a hot bath, or on the couch, or in bed, anywhere horizontal.

  It was the sickness more than anything, the bandages were wrapped so tightly that the whole area was numb but the rest of him felt more ill than all of his childhood bugs combined. His body was weak and he couldn’t keep from shaking all over. He knew he wouldn’t puke though, he couldn't; there hadn’t been a scrap of food in there for 48 hours at least- “not to mention the retching might force a gut through my brand new hole” he blenched at the thought.

  After a short drive which seemed twice as long as usual James slipped rather ungracefully out of the cab, he could see on the cabbies face the relief that he hadn’t vomited, James felt the same, a $50 fine would bankrupt him. The man didn’t take credit cards funnily enough and waited outside whilst James nipped to his apartment, scaling the stairs with sheer willpower, to harvest any sofa change. It was a depressing, fleeting visit, he was sure the couch whispered, “come to me-e-e” but it wasn’t long until he was shutting the door behind him and veg’ing out.

  He unwound his bandages from around his stomach before getting into the bath, he’d put some bubbles in it that promised to relax the muscles and under the circumstances didn’t feel too feminine. The wound stung in the water, he looked down at it and for the first time he thought just how lucky he was that it was only a small blade, if lucky was the appropriate word, but he really didn’t need this right now.

  He didn’t wash, he didn’t have anyone to impress, so after thirty minutes he reluctantly (the bath water was tepid anyway) stood up. The icy apartment enveloped him and he almost sat back down but he stepped one wet and bubbly foot out onto the mat, cursing himself for forgetting to put on the thermostat and wrapped a dark blue towel around his waist. His dressing gown hung behind the door on a hook, it was murky brown and didn’t look half as comfortable as it was. He had had a white one last year but when he opened the door to the plumber one day the look on the guys face said it all, apparently looking like you’d taken a shit in the fabric softener wasn’t nearly as bad as looking like a big, unshaven marshmallow.

  James took a couple of his antibiotics with his microwave meal, a tasteless roast dinner, with separate compartments for peas, carrots, mashed potato. There was nothing on television; his DVD collection was thin at best and he almost found it impossible to sleep during the day which meant meeting Stacey tonight would be a fight to stay awake. He didn’t feel up to it at all, he wished he’d had the chance to ask to meet some other time but he couldn't stand him up, well, rather, he was afraid to stand him up, he couldn't pin point exactly why. Before he had time to think about that –bbbzzzzztttt – the buzzer sounded. “Now I wonder who that could be…” He muttered sarcastically. He slid his feet into his slippers and shuffled to th
e door.

  “Mr Baal, what can I do for you?” James smiled; he wasn’t happy to see him.

  “You can start with the two month’s rent you owe me.” The landlord barked, his large belly emerging from beneath his wife beater.

  “It's a funny story actually Mr Baal, I was in the hospital last night and my health insurance expired and so I had to pay the hospital pretty much all of my cash to stitch me up.” James lifted his shirt. The landlord could hardly argue with that. He sighed a breath of unbrushed stink.

  “Just get it to me when you can.” Mr Baal walked down the corridor to number 14 where some other deadbeat hadn't been paying. James closed his door as the other opened.

  He fell asleep around eight. It wasn’t completely planned; a thirty minute nap was planned, but as the hour hand ticked over twelve James’s heavy eyes blinked into action. He glared at the alarm clock trying to make sense of the bright numbers. Panic teared through his feeble frame. “Shit!” In a blur he rolled out of bed and into his clothes, nearly falling on his backside as he hopped into his socks. Down the steps and outside in sixty seconds flat the midnight air cut into him like glass, he pulled his collar tight around his neck and jogged onwards. James didn’t know why he was so desperate not to stand him up, Stacey didn’t know where he lived or who he was, he told himself he was more concerned with being polite than upsetting him, but something inside him told him their meeting was important, the creative, inspired part of him that had been neglected for so long, Stacey was a character he wanted.

  James stood outside of the door for a moment, the longer he stood the more nervous he became although he didn’t know why. Something about the man was off. Of course, having a bottle smashed in his face didn't give a great impression but his story excused it, even so, it made him uneasy.

  swallowing hard he pulled open the door, it was heavier than he remembered, must have got stuck by the ice, peering through he looked over to the stool where he’d first seen Stacey sat. He was there alright and motioned him in. James lifted one unsure arm in a pathetic attempt at a wave back. As he walked over Red called to him.

  “Heard about last night, how about one on the house?” He poised a glass ready to pour.

  “Well, actually I’m not supposed to drink on these antibiotics.” James felt pretty dumb coming into a bar and not ordering a drink. “I guess one can’t hurt.”

  “If ones all yer having then it ain’t on the house!” Red laughed, but his stern gaze never faltered.

  “I’m getting this one.” Stacey stood and placed a few coins on the bar. “Bring it over to this ‘ere booth; we’ve got some serious business to talk.”

  Serious business? James reeled at the thought, it wouldn’t surprise him if Stacey was some sort of drug mule trying to con James into the business, or, God forbid, he was a gay pimp looking for new meat. They sat down, Stacey with a grunt, like an overweight balloon letting out air. He didn’t speak for a while, Red brought the drinks over and Stacey drank half before wiping the foam from around his mouth and facial hair.

  “So, how’s the stomach?” He asked.

  “Better than your face by the looks of it.”

  “It ain’t as bad as it looks; heck I got a belly so full o’ liquor I can’t feel a thing.”

  “Have you been waiting long? I lost track.” James said.

  “I dunno, don’t remember when I got here, what time is it?”

  “Twelve-ish.”

  “Already? I haven’t even had my dinner. Saw Kate before she left, told her I needed to speak to her gentleman friend about givin’ me some insurance to stop me from telling the cops what’e did, “hittin’ a fella with a bottle can be illegal business, Miss.” I said, she advised against it but I told her I can take care o’ myself. I got his address.” A devilish smirk flickered across Stacey’s face, as if he was thinking about doing more than shaking this man down for bills.

  “What are you gonna do?” James asked.

  “I ain’t gonna do nuthin’ stupid if that's watcha mean.” Stacey said as he took a swig from his drink, not once removing his eyes from James’s. James didn’t believe him.

  “Hey I forgot to ask ya in the hospital, I was blabberin’ about my life but I don’t know anything about yours. Whatcha do for a livin’?”

  James was hoping he wouldn’t ask. He was a writer but at the moment ‘illiterate’ was more accurate, he hadn’t written a word in so long he didn’t know how he had managed it before.

  “I’m an author.” He answered despite himself.

  “Is that right? What d’you write about?”

  “Horror, mainly, some thrillers, although the truth is I don’t think I can do it anymore, I haven’t written a book in-” he thought to himself –“wow…” It was a long time.

  “Well, I don’t know much about books but I do know about bikes and I’m certain there’s an old sayin’ that goes; ‘once ya learn how’da ride a bike, ya never forget it’”

  James smiled, only slightly, in the right corner of his mouth, it was unnoticeable but he felt it, “this guy seems okay” he told himself, the back of his mind whispered, “and nobody’s cared about your problems before.”

  “There was loadsa times I’d fall offa my bike,” Stacey continued, “and get hurt and say ‘I ain’t never getting on that thing again’ but the bruises fade, bones heal and event’ully you get back on.”

  “I enjoy metaphors as much as the next guy but my bones are broken and I don’t even have a bike, I did, but now it’s busted beyond repair.”

  “Then go buy a bike.” Stacey looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “How do I do that?” –Was he really asking this guy for writing advice?

  Stacey didn’t answer him; he just glared at him whilst he supped the last of his foamy drink. James noticed the tattoo on his hand but couldn’t quite make it out, it was a black diamond but it was old because the ink was faded. There were two white spaces within it that read ‘1%’

  “Strange tattoo, what’s it mean?”

  Stacey laughed, almost as if he was waiting for James to notice, he turned his wrist towards him and he was damn proud of it.

  “Like it? All us 1%ers have ‘em. You heard of the 1%ers?”

  James had heard it somewhere but didn’t know exactly what it meant. “Are they a sort of club or…?”

  “Kinda, what it means is –“ He leaned over the table to James. “Were ‘outlaw’ bikers, that’s what they call us, we’re the ones who don’t follow the ‘rules’.”

  “What, like criminals?” James asked.

  “Yeah, exactly like criminals. An’ see this –“ He flipped his wrist over to show three red, identical lines. “Three for each man I killed.”

  James stood, knocking the table and making his beer spill, he wanted to run but he couldn’t move. “Tell me you’re messing with me.”

  “I wish I could say I was but you know why I told ya? – sit down, please! I ain’t killed no body in maybe twenty years! Please, sit back down,” –James did, “I trust ya, I like ya, and I know what I done, I was a kid, I served my time and I want someone, anyone to know that I’ve changed, to be a friend to me.”

  James was silent, he was thinking. Thinking a lot of things at once. He had never been judgemental, he had a past just like everybody else, but murder, he wasn’t sure, he’d never come across anybody who’d killed a man before, though he’d written about it enough times. Besides, there was another thought bouncing around at the back of his head, character profile. It was as if the writing God’s had dropped this large black-leather gift in front of him.

  “Tell me about it.” James spoke after a short while. Stacey looked relieved that he’d stayed.

  “I’d rather not, I'd prefer’da keep it in the past.”

  “Then why did you tell me?”

  “I thought I could trust ya.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  “Look, I don’t like lying –”

  “Then tell me wh
y.”

  “That is why!”

  James bit into his lip. He knew there was something Stacey wasn’t telling him and his curiosity couldn't let that go.

  “So, let me help you.” Stacey said.

  “Help me what?”

  “I wanna help ya write again.”

  “How are you gonna do that?”

  “Well first of all we gotta think about your bike, any idea on how ya could get it?”

  “You don’t mean a real bike do you?” James frowned.

  “No – NO! Come one, James, use that brain o’ yours!” –for some reason hearing this man say his name sent a cold chill up his spine, for a moment he wondered if he had even told him his name.

  “Well, the best inspiration comes from real life events, for example Stephen King wrote ‘Pet Semetary’ after his cat was killed on a busy road, but for some reason living in my shitty apartment in this crappy city doesn't give me many prompts.”

  “Stephe-…. I don't know who that feller is.” Stacey scratched his head. “But I like that idea, writing about somethin’ you’ve done or seen, then jazzin’ it up a bit.”

  “But nothing exciting happens in this city.”

  “Oh, really? You get out much do you? See a lot of the darker side of the town? Cause it’s got one alright.”

  “I thought you were just passing through.” James was trying to figure this guy out, he was starting to feel a little on edge.

  “I am, and once I’ve gone so has your chance.”

  “What are you talking about?” He asked.

  “I think I might be able to give you somethin’ to write about.” Stacey looked at him.

  “What do you mean?” He didn’t like where this was going.

  “Fancy payin’ that son-of-a-bitch a visit? Teach him not to bother your friend anymore?”

  “You mean teach him not to mess with you anymore.”

  “Ha! It’s all the same, whaddaya say?” Stacey smiled showing all his teeth, they were black and rotting. “Look, I rough him up a little, you can write about it, all the gory details.“