The Contractor
Page 6
Now I stand on the sidewalk outside Cucina, Cucina, about five feet away from Frost’s table, looking at him. I want Clarence to see me, but he focuses stubbornly on his meal. I walk a few paces away and then return, hoping the movement will catch his attention. All he does is reach for his coffee, take a drink, and then pick up his fork again. Finally, I pull a ball point pen from my pocket and run it along the bars of the fence. It doesn’t make a lot of noise, but enough. Clarence looks up from his food and spots me. I stare at him, then at Frost, and then back at Clarence again. Then I begin to walk away, and as I do I hear Clarence say, “I don’t like this. Get the waiter to move you inside.” I hear a chair scrape, and I hope it is his. I walk down the block, not too quickly, to Sprague Avenue, cross the street against the light, and pause in front of the glass window of a department store display. In its reflection I see Clarence, just reaching the curb across the street. I start walking again, more quickly this time, heading toward the city park that lies a couple of blocks away on the banks of the Spokane River. I am sure I can trust Clarence to follow me; I have his full attention by now, although he is surely going to wish he had stayed and finished his ravioli. A wide footbridge crosses the river, leading to an IMax theater, a carrousel, and a small pavilion that will soon undergo its annual transformation into an ice skating rink. There are foot paths in several directions, and an ample supply of bushes and trees. I look back to make sure he sees me, then cut across the grass to the right, in the direction of the river. I stop behind a large shrub rose and wait. Clarence reaches the spot where I left the pavement and briefly glances around. Before he can look back, I am on the move again, circling behind him. It is a trick I learned as a boy, hunting deer. White tails, especially, will circle around and stand at your rear, watching and, I suppose, smiling however a deer smiles, while you move ahead, blissfully unaware of their presence. I circle and come up behind Clarence, and then follow him at a safe distance while he marches toward the bank of the river. He stops there, and looks around again. I move quietly to a large evergreen bush about six feet away from him. Then I say, “Hello, Clarence.”
He turns, but still does not see me. He is not very skilled at this. He is about to get a quick lesson in spotting tails and he will not enjoy it. He stares again in my direction, sees nothing, and swivels around, not sure what to do next. I rustle the bushes loudly. Anything to help him out. He turns back toward me, and I rustle the needles again. He walks directly toward me, clenching his fists. I step out into his sight, and he stops.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
“I’m your bete noire.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says, and lunges at me. He is too fast for his own good, and overshoots me as I slip to one side. As he passes I lash out with my right heel and slam him in the side of the knee. He staggers, then whirls and crouches. I am guessing that his fighting skills aren’t much better than his surveillance skills, but he is fast, and bigger than I am. I wait quietly. He takes three steps toward me, then throws a kick, a big, slow roundhouse aimed at my head. He has seen too many Jackie Chan movies. Never try to kick a man in the head. I block his leg easily with crossed forearms, then grab the ankle with my hands and hold it high. The ball of my foot slams into his nuts, and he makes a squeaky scream of pain. I let go and he falls to his hands and knees. Unless his head is only a foot off the ground. I snap a kick into his left temple, follow with the ball of my other foot and then, as he loses consciousness and his head hits the ground, I slam my right heel into the back of his neck. He shudders and lies still. I reach down and grab his head. There is a trick to breaking a man’s neck. You cannot just give it a twisting snap; all that will do is sprain it—painful but not fatal. What you do is pull the head straight back by the jaw, until the back of the skull is practically touching the spine. Then snap and twist sharply, the direction does not matter.
I pull Clarence into the shrubbery and go quickly through his pockets. I find the keys to the Mercedes and a slender wallet that holds a drivers license and nothing else—no currency, no credit cards, no pictures. Clarence traveled light. That is good, because he has a long journey to make tonight. I tuck the keys and wallet into my pocket stand up, and look down at Clarence. The river, I decide. A fitting medium for his voyage to the other side. I pick him up and walk him to the water’s edge. There are people in the distance, but no one is looking in my direction. I settle down, cross-legged, still holding Clarence in my arms. Then I lower him all the way to the ground, and roll him gently into the current. I sit for a moment and watch him float away. I decide I like rivers. I wonder if I can arrange my work so that I only take jobs that have them handy.
I wait a moment longer, checking to make sure no one is in a position to observe me. Then I rise and step back into the bushes. I stay in their shadow as long as I can, then emerge and go back to the sidewalk, a good distance from where Clarence and I parted ways. I look around again. There really are people everywhere, but they are all taken up in their own affairs. I could have murdered twins tonight and no one would have noticed. When I was younger and living in Houston, which once had a reputation as the nation’s murder capital, an off-duty policeman sitting next to me in a beer joint told me that the safest way to kill someone is to walk up to him on a busy street, shoot him or stab him, and just walk away. The longer I live, the more I believe he was right.
I cross the river and return to the restaurant. Like a good boy, Arden Frost has moved inside. He sits there, looking worried and impatient. The carafe is empty, and he has worked half way through another. Clearly, Frost likes his alcohol. I file that away for future reference. I walk in and sit down at the table. I pull out Clarence’s wallet and toss it on the table.
“Clarence doesn’t need a job anymore,” I say. “And I do.”
Frost looks at me uncomprehendingly. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.
“What’s more, I think he planned to kill you.” I pull out my list of targets and show it to him. “There’s your name, fourth on the list. I happen to know that three of the others are already dead. A car got one of them. The other two were shot.” When you are going to lie, don’t do it half way. I stand up again. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you home, and we’ll talk.”
“What about my car?” Frost asks.
“Worry about that tomorrow.” Frost shrugs and nods. He stands up and starts to walk away from the table. Then he stops, grabs the carafe, and fills his glass. He drains the wine, hesitates, then refills the glass. He empties it one more time, then follows me wordlessly to the street. I have the impression that he is glad someone is telling him what to do, and I wonder if his claim that he was only Manzoni’s fall guy might be true.
Chapter 12
Over time I have gotten better at my work. I think the talent was always there, but I lacked experience. My first murder was neither creative nor pretty. It was also the only time I ever killed for anything but money.
I was twenty, and had convinced myself that I was in love. Her name was Donna, and she worked at a drive-in hamburger place near my college. Looking back I cannot imagine why I was so attached to her. For a number of years I kept a photograph. She wore too much makeup, dyed her hair yellow, and had a slender but flabby body. Now that the picture is gone, I cannot remember her face, and her voice has long since melded into a generic drawl that would serve for any poorly educated Southern woman.
We dated for a semester, and then she began seeing someone else, the son of a local farmer. Through the winter, she toyed with me, sometimes seeing me, sometimes standing me up for him. A period came where she avoided me completely, and spent her time exclusively with the farmer’s son, whose name was Richard. I continued to pester her. I telephoned her, sent her notes, and dropped by her house at odd times. She responded by withdrawing more, and eventually refused to speak to me when we met on the street.
Just as I had begun finally to let go of my obsession with her I received a no
te. It said she had felt a change of heart, that she missed me, and that she wanted to see me, but did not want Richard to know. She asked me to meet her, at eleven at night, by the fountain of a local park. I was suspicious. I went so far as to find other samples of her handwriting, to make sure the note was hers. Then I called her, and asked if she really wanted to see me, and she said yes, and I asked to meet her then. But she insisted on the fountain at eleven, and hung up hurriedly, saying she was not alone.
Warning signals flashed in my mind. Now I would heed them, because I have learned that I have a sense about such things. But that time I ignored them.
The next evening I walked to the park. The path to the fountain led through heavy woods, but a nearly full moon cast a bright light on the open spaces. I reached the fountain, which stood in a clearing, and did not see Donna. Then I heard voices, coming from the other side of the fountain. Someone laughed, and I was sure it was her. Staying in the shadow of the trees, I circled around to the other side.
Donna lay on her back, naked, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight, her thin arms and legs wrapped around Richard, who humped and groaned theatrically while she giggled.
I stood and watched them, my body trembling, and wanted to vomit. Suddenly, from deeper in the trees, five or six bright flashlights came on, all of them pointed at me, and then the woods were filled with male and female laughter.
I turned and ran from the park, the laughter following me long after I could no longer really hear it. I decided at that moment to kill them both.
That was the spring of my junior year. I waited, keeping to my books, through my senior year. At first, my humiliation made me want to quit the fencing team, but I decided to continue. By then I was seeing myself as a murderer, and I assumed that anything I could do to act as if the incident with Donna had no importance would distance me from suspicions.
I did not act until a full year after my graduation. I had found employment as a carpenter’s apprentice in Nashville, which was big enough, and far enough away, to vanish into, but still close enough for a quick strike at Richard and Donna. I kept track of things through the Sewanee paper, and knew from that of the death of Richard’s father, and of his engagement to Donna. They were to marry in July.
On a Tuesday in June I called in sick, gassed up, and headed toward Richard’s farm, a used bicycle I had bought for cash three weeks before strapped to the top of the car. I drove to the outskirts of Tullahoma, and found a secluded picnic area that was isolated enough to park the car without attracting attention. Then I climbed on the bike. I planned to pedal through the night and arrive at the farm well before dawn. Richard would have early chores to do, and I intended to make his barn a mausoleum. I had decided that if Donna were handy, I would kill them both on the same day. Otherwise, she could wait.
Hemingway once said that anyone can kill a bull, if you do not care how you do it. My moment of truth with Richard was like that. I had brought a knife, a large, double-edged Marine combat weapon with a blade close to ten inches long. I thought it would be simple. I would jump into his path, stab him, and he would die.
It began well. He came out of the house just as the sky was turning gray. He was alone, and acted as if he might be hung over. I waited until he was almost to the barn, so that I would have less distance to drag the body. He was completely surprised when I stepped into his path. He simply stared at me, his hands hanging at his sides, as I drove the heavy blade into his chest. After that, everything went wrong.
Richard leaped at me with a loud yell. He grabbed me by the throat and threw me down, and began to choke me. His hands were powerful, and his body heavy and strong. He seemed not to notice the blade in his chest at all. We thrashed together, him on top of me, the hilt of the knife banging against my ribs. I managed to grab it and pull it out, and then began stabbing wildly at his back. He gasped and let go, and I rolled away from him and stood up. He stared at me, on his hands and knees, the knife sticking up from under his right shoulder blade. Then he scrambled toward me again, trying to tackle me, cursing loudly as he came. I was totally unprepared. It had not occurred to me that he would cling so obstinately to life when I wanted him to die. I backed away, kicking desperately at his head. Then I saw a shovel leaning against the wall of the barn. I grabbed it and hit him in the head. He grunted and came after me again. I hit him a second time, and a third, and finally he dropped. I approached him carefully, afraid he would grab me again. My ears rang, and the beating of my heart was even louder. I shook like a leaf. Finally I edged close enough to nudge him with a trembling foot. He did not respond. I waited a few moments longer, then knelt and rolled him over. His eyes were open, but he did not breathe. I pressed my fingers under his jaw, and found no pulse. I was sure he was dead, and yet not sure. Finally, I rolled him over again and withdrew the knife from his back. Then I slit his throat.
My clothes were soaked in Richard’s blood, and I had nothing to replace them with. I had not thought of that. For a moment I stood there in a panic. Then my wits returned to some extent. Richard would have clothes in his house. He was larger than I, but that did not matter.
I dragged him to a far corner of the barn, next to a pile of straw bales. I lay three of those across him. Then I went to the house to find something to wear. Luck was with me. On the screened back porch a pair of coveralls hung from a nail. I grabbed them and ran to my bicycle.
Five or six miles from Richard’s house, the road passed through a heavily wooded area. I stopped there and walked the bicycle into the trees. Then I changed clothes, dug a hole with a broken branch and the heel of my shoe, and buried my bloodstained garments. I stayed in the woods all day, and with darkness I rode back to my car, stored the bicycle, and returned to Nashville.
For weeks I went to bed every night in the certain knowledge that the police would come before morning. They did not, and eventually I was able to believe that they would not. I did not go back for Donna, and life went on.
Chapter 13
Arden Frost is having trouble getting it through his head that Clarence is dead. He sits in an enclosed sun porch, across a round wicker table from me, and blinks. The table top is of glass, and he repeatedly bangs the bourbon and water he has poured for himself onto the surface. He takes a long swallow and puts the glass down hard again. I am surprised the table top does not crack. It is his third drink since I arrived, but he does not show obvious signs of intoxication. He carries his liquor too well, a sign that he probably has been an active alcoholic for years.
“This is really upsetting,” he says. “I don’t even want to tell Julia.” He waves his hands helplessly. “That’s my wife. She’d freak, maybe take the kids and move out. She’s talked about that anyway, because she’s been afraid of just this kind of thing, you know?”
“Women frighten easily,” I say. Part of me thinks that would be a good thing. It would leave Frost alone in his oversized fantasy castle, and make my job easier. But it would also increase my visibility, because if he tells her about Clarence, sure as hell he will also tell her about me.
“I still don’t understand what happened,” he says.
I spin him the tale I have been rehearsing. I was walking past the restaurant, saw him and recognized him from newspaper pictures, and was naturally curious, so I stood and watched for a while. Then I walked off intending to take a stroll in the park, near the river, and got attacked. I defended myself, and I mention my martial skills here, and when it was over I realized that I had killed the man who was with Frost in the restaurant. I pull out Clarence’s wallet and toss it onto the table.
“I found the list in there.”
Frost picks the wallet up, fiddles with it momentarily, and lays it down again.
“So you want to take his place?”
I nod. “I’m assuming you still need a bodyguard. You can pay me what you paid him, and that will be a good deal for you. I’m better than he was.”
Frost looks at me and blinks again, then offers a weak smile
. “Yeah, I guess you are,” he says. The smile droops into a frown. “But how do I know I can trust you? Somebody needs to vouch for you.”
“How did you hire Clarence?”
“My lawyer sent him to me. I don’t know how he knew him. Anyway, I need some references.”
“Nobody here knows me. That’s a bonus point for you. I can be a lot more discrete than Clarence was, not that that’s saying much.” I stop to think. I decide Guido Valenti ought to be good for a favor, especially as he was the one who sent Angwin my way. “My last job was with a guy who belongs to the Mob,” I say. “He might not want me throwing his name around, but I’ll check and see. In the meantime, I’m going to consider myself hired.”
Frost gives me a startled look and flaps his eyelids some more. He blinks a lot, and I wonder whether it is something neurological or just a case of nerves.
The door to the sun porch opens and a young boy marches in. It is one of the children I saw earlier with the woman I have assumed is Frost’s wife.
“Mom says it’s your turn to get me to bed,” he says, and stands, hands on hips, daring his father to say no. He pays no attention to me. Frost stands up. He looks relieved to have a distraction.
“I guess . . .” he begins.
I wave him quiet and rise from the table. “I’m going to go back into town for the night. I’ll check with my previous employer, to see if he’s okay with talking to you.” I give him what I hope is a meaningful look. “I think you’re right, by the way, to keep your mouth shut for now.” Before Frost can respond I am out the door and walking to my car.
The Ridpath is one of Spokane’s surprises—a traditional hotel in the center of town, old but well kept. I always take the same room, on a corner of the eleventh floor, with windows in two walls, facing north and east. The room is no larger than any of the others, but the extra window makes it seem more spacious. Best of all, in keeping with the character of an elegant old lady, the place is furnished with a minimum of plastic and supermarket paintings. I pour myself two fingers of brandy, sit down at the small, round table next to the north-facing window, and begin to think of the most efficient way of killing Frost. Seeing his son strengthens my reluctance to do the job at his house. It creates complications. I am not crazy about the idea of someone walking in on me right in the middle of things. I was willing to take that risk with Lucero, but the situation was different; nobody cares what happens to a two-bit crook. Frost, on the other hand, might be a crook, but not of the two-bit variety. I have to assume that, like most corporate scofflaws, he has friends in high places. Even if his family cannot identify me I need to keep my visibility low, do the work and get out, preferably before anyone even knows Frost has a new bodyguard. I hope he stays with his intention not to upset his family by telling them about Clarence.