“I just need to think,” was all Jeff said after that long moment had passed. “Try and find some solution. Hopefully, that doesn’t involve that.”
“Like I said,” said Holly, “sounds like you’ve already given it a lot of thought,” She added, “Is there one?”
“What?”
Jerry tensed up again—they were talking about him, about possibly murdering him. His life was in the balance. Despite his fear, he moved off the box of sweaters, got onto his knees and started to inching forward again to the opening in the sliding door so he could watch Holly and Jeff engage in this conversation.
From the crack in the doorway, he observed Jeff’s shadow dance upon the far wall as he paced around the bedroom. Then, his physical self suddenly emerged into Jerry’s field of view and Jerry let out a short gasp. Jeff stopped pacing and looked back, toward the closet, staring, it seemed in that indeterminable instant, straight into Jerry’s eyes. But in the next moment, he looked away and stood sideways to Jerry with a hand to his chin. He was deep in thought, pondering the situation while glaring at the far wall.
“A solution,” said Holly. “Other than that, killing him. Is there one?”
It was as if Holly was goading Jeff into the obvious answer, that killing Jerry was not only a solution, but their only solution. Jeff lowered his hand and looked at her. “No, I haven’t come up with one yet,” he said. “But, like you said, murder is not something I really ever thought of getting into. Especially as it pertains to Jerry.”
Jeff went back over and sat on the edge of the bed.
While Jeff and Holly gazed into each other’s eyes, their fingers intertwined tenderly, she said to him, “I have to agree with you, though. Jerry may not be able to hack it. He’d slip up down the line. Certainly without me there watching him.”
“That’s what I fear.”
“So, maybe we have no choice in the matter,” she said, just above a whisper.
Jeff leaned forward and started kissing her again, their passion renewed perhaps by the thought of her complicity in the murder of her husband. The thought of killing him with her encouragement was the ultimate aphrodisiac. The brutal murder of a cuckold by the cuckold’s rival.
“I think you have to do it,” she moaned with passion in her every breath, as he kissed her lips and face. “I think that you must do it.”
“Yes,” Jeff said breathlessly, himself wrapped up in the fantasy. “Yes!”
He was tearing off his clothes again and reaching under the covers for her body.
“I’m gonna shoot that motherfucker right between the eyes,” Jeff said as he thrust forward, hard, deep.
Jerry watched dispassionately this time, shocked, alone there in the dark closet.
They meant to murder him.
Chapter Nineteen
Back at the cheap motel, the same one out by Ralph Wilson Stadium, fifteen minutes outside of Buffalo, where he had stayed during his fake funeral, Jerry spent the rest of that night, and early into the next morning, pacing the small, claustrophobic room, taking swigs out of a bottle of cheap whiskey. Every now and then he’d stop and sit on the edge of the bed and simply stare for a time at the grimy, smoke-stained cinder block walls or the coffee-colored blank TV screen propped up on an old, cheap dresser. His world had just crumbled. The worst of everything had come to pass, crashing down upon him. He had lost Holly to Jeff, who had now become his arch- nemesis and his prospective assassin. And Holly had participated willfully, even gleefully, in the ultimate betrayal.
The whiskey enhanced Jerry’s deep sorrow and desperate loneliness following the shock of this revelation. Still, what was he to do? Where was he to run? He thought of calling his sister Joan and confessing the whole sordid mess, and turning himself into the cops the following morning with a lawyer and Joan by his side. But Jerry soon gave up on that idea. He and Joan had never been close, and she had enough problems with his alcoholic, abusive brother-in-law, and her boorish teenage boys constantly causing her grief. And his father was certainly not an option. Big Pete was old and worn out and the last thing he needed was for Jerry, the wrong son, to come back from the dead. Furthermore, Jerry would be the laughing stock of the local news, his family and friends once the story got out that he was the ultimate cuckold and had turned himself in out of cowardice and shame.
At some point, Jerry got up and wobbled over to the small radio alarm clock on the table next to the bed, clicked it on, hoping some decent music might break his dire mood and give him cause for hope. It was already tuned to some oldies FM station and, ironically enough, the old Jethro Tull song, Locomotive Breath, was playing the following verse:
In the shuffling madness of the locomotive breath, runs the all-time loser, headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping—steam breaking on his brow—
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going—
no way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off at the stations— one by one.
His woman and his best friend— in bed and having fun.
He's crawling down the corridor on his hands and knees—
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going—
no way to slow down.
He hears the silence howling— catches angels as they fall.
And the all-time winner has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideon’s Bible— open at page one—
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going—
no way to slow down.
After Jeff had finally left his house, Jerry had to wait deep in the recesses of the closet until Holly got off the bed and shuffled into the master bathroom and proceeded through her nightly ritual in preparation for bed. After seven years of living with her, Jerry knew all that it entailed. All in the same order, she would methodically remove her makeup, then comb out her shoulder length, wheat-blonde hair, and finally, brush her teeth before gargling a mouthful of Listerine. Jerry had always laughed at the unsexy sound of her gargling.
So when Jerry heard her brushing her teeth, he knew he had to move fast. But first, he had to restrain himself from jumping out of his hiding place and rushing into the bathroom to confront her with what she had done and with what she had said that night, the full depth of her betrayal. Then he might slap her around before raping her and strangling her to death. The wonder of that plan was that he couldn’t possibly become suspected of her murder, that he could indeed get away with it. To the authorities, he was dust.
But deep down, Jerry knew he couldn’t kill Holly, despite how easily and savagely she had betrayed him. The problem was that he still had feelings for her, genuine feelings, and he couldn't accept that her betrayal, no matter how bad it seemed, was complete. Furthermore, to confront her now would gain nothing, but rather give away his secret advantage. Knowledge is power, and he had certainly obtained the upper hand in that respect that night over Holly and Jeff.
So after a deep breath, Jerry clambered to his feet and negotiated his way through Holly’s dresses and blouses, taking a deep breath of the sweet perfume wafting through them before gingerly opening the sliding door and peeking out. He took a single step into the bedroom and heard Holly spit into the bathroom sink. In the next moment, she was gargling.
Jerry hustled to the open door of the master bedroom out into the dark hallway leading to the staircase. At the top stair, he stopped and listened. Holly had not yet switched off the bathroom light. That gave him all the time he needed to get downstairs and out of the house.
He had escaped, and like the invisible man he was, had not been seen. He went out the way he had come, through the kitchen door leading out to the deck. When Jeff had left the house, he had set the alarm, so Jerry had to remember to disarm it before arming it again on his way out.
“Mother-fucking bitch!” Jerry shouted as he fell back onto the lumpy bed of his motel room after the Tull song ended and some late night DJ, in a soft and
pleasant voice identified the song and artist for the benefit of his few listeners, the year it first broadcast on the album Aqualung in 1971.
“Mother-fucking bastards!”
But after a minute or so of disgorging his drunken anger and sorrow, there was a part of Jerry that felt fairly good right then. Emboldened suddenly by the alcohol buzzing through his veins and brain after a long tiring day that included driving three and a half hours and watching his wife and best friend in bed having fun screwing and plotting his murder. By some favor granted by the gods, he had found out the lying fuckers that Jeff and Holly had turned out to be. Still better, he knew that they had a plan and what it was.
All he had to do was think up a suitable revenge, a betrayal all his own.
Chapter Twenty
Jerry decided that the first thing he needed to do was contact the body guy.
Jeff had told him about his encounter with the body guy, and so Jerry knew his name and where he worked. For the better part of two days, Jerry watched Willie Robinson come and go from his job at the medical school. During those two days, Jerry didn't learn that much about Robinson, except that he drove a rusty, beat-up old dark green Ford Taurus and that he was punctual to a fault, arriving in his parking space at 8:55 each morning.
Robinson was a slight built, diminutive, dark-skinned black man in his late thirties. His hair was greased straight back and the first time Jerry saw him he thought of Sammy Davis Jr. He carried a small paper bag, undoubtedly his lunch, and walked briskly from the old Taurus up the long, narrow sidewalk from the parking lot to the entrance of the basement where Willie Robinson spent his long eight-hour shift in the glaring light scrubbing newly arrived bodies, making sure they were ready for the future doctors of America.
At exactly 5:05 both days, the body guy left the building, shuffled unenthusiastically down the long sidewalk to his parking space, and drove home. Jerry could only guess what could be on the body guy’s mind. Perhaps he was thinking of his next payment from Jeff and what he was going to blow it on.
Home was on the east side of Buffalo, on the fringes of a rough, black neighborhood that didn’t look safe for anyone at any time. His house was well-kept, however, a massive clapboard not unlike so many others along the street of that old, tired neighborhood.
Robinson arrived home around six the first day of Jerry’s surveillance and shuffled toward it like a man who really desired to be someplace else. But on the second day, a Tuesday, just as Jeff had said, Robinson stopped off at a rundown tavern, Adams Lounge, on Fillmore Avenue a few blocks from his home. It was the bar where Jeff had met Robinson and first broached the idea of buying a cadaver. If Jeff had been correct in his observations, he’d remain at Adams’ Lounge until about eight thirty, nine o’clock and then slunker home to his big-ass wife and kid.
Jerry watched Robinson another day but finally, on the fourth day of watching him, at 5:09 P.M., Jerry strode out between a couple cars across from Robinson’s parking spot and approached him at the driver’s side door of his Taurus.
“Mister Robinson? Willie Robinson?” Robinson turned and squinted at Jerry.
“Who wants to know?” he asked.
“Ah, me,” said Jerry. “A friend.”
Robinson’s squint hardened into a scowl. “I know you?”
“No,” Jerry said, “but I think you should.”
“Say what?”
“Let’s just say, I’m an acquaintance of Jeff Flaherty. You sold him a body a few weeks back.”
Jerry had practiced these lines, this approach. “I don't know nothing about it.”
“Look, man, “Jerry said. “I’m Flaherty’s accomplice.”
“Accomplice?”
“The body you gave him,” said Jerry, “became me.” After a moment, Robinson nodded.
“So what you want?”
“To talk.”
“’Bout what?”
“Let’s go someplace.”
They settled on a quiet tavern in a strip mall not far from the university. There were only two other customers in the place that Thursday evening, both of whom occupied stools at the far corner of the bar. They gave Jerry and Willie Robinson passing glances as they settled into a dark back booth. Jerry went up to the bar and ordered two cold Miller drafts and brought them back to the table.
After taking a sip, Robinson asked, “So what you got to tell me?”
Jerry launched into it, starting from beginning to end. How he and Holly had met Jeff Flaherty at the law firm Christmas Party now almost two years ago. Almost a year to the day later, they hatched a plot to defraud Global insurance out of four million dollars. Now the plan had been executed, and they were waiting for the claim to be paid.
“Four million?” interrupted Robinson. He had not realized until that moment the magnitude of the crime.
And then Jerry told Willie Robinson about the betrayal of Jeff and Holly.
“Shit man,” Willie said. “That be cruel.”
“Yeah. Cruel. But that's not the half of it.” After another swallow of beer, Jerry told Willie Robinson how his blackmailing had forced Jeff Flaherty to consider murdering him.
“Kill me?” Robinson laughed.
“And then after you,” Jerry added, “me.”
Robinson mulled all this over for a time, then said, “So they double-crossing me, and you.”
“Yep,” Jerry said. “Looks that way.”
“That’s bad shit,” Robinson said.
“Plenty bad,” said Jerry.
They sipped their beers in silence for a time until Jerry said, “So that's why we got to help each other. Scare the living shit out of them, not to mention take some of their money. A lot of their money.”
Willie Robinson nodded and gave Jerry a kindly, friendly look, then Jerry asked, “So why'd you get mixed up in our little scam?”
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “being honest and good don't always pay the bills.” He sighed, straightened up, started tapping his fingers on the table. “You really want to know? I got involved in something before this that I shouldn't have. I like to play the numbers. And sometimes, the numbers like to play me. I ended up owing this guy, Stevie, a lot of money.
“So when that yuppie dude, your accomplice and all that, stopped by the Adams Lounge and started talking to me about needing a body, I thought, what the hell, let me think about it. I knew there's almost no way for anyone to find out I sold one. Who the hell would want a body, anyway? Plus, I burn them up afterward, and ash is ash, you know what I mean? Anyway, I thought about it a day, then I called him up and said, let's play.
“He gave me the ten grand, and I got him the body,” Robinson went on. “But then, afterward, I got to thinking, what the hell he do with that body? And I figured, shit man, I got underpaid. The ten grand was just enough to pay off Stevie, I had nothing left. So I thought, what the hell, if I can get a few thousand more, maybe I can get the hell out of this place and find a nice place for my wife and kid.”
He let Jerry buy him another round.
“So what's next?” Robinson asked. “What's your deal?”
“I call Jeff and tell him what I know,” Jerry said. “That I know their plan to kill you, then me, and so when the insurance money comes, I get a cut, and so do you.”
“How much?” Willie asked, a hard edge to his look. “A cool mil, okay?”
Robinson's eyes boggled. A million dollars! He laughed and shook his head. “You kidding me?”
“No man,” Jerry said. “A million. That's a million for each of us.”
Robinson nodded. “Shit man, let's fucking drink on it.”
They toasted to their good fortune and coming riches and shook hands and laughed at how marvelously things were going to turn out. And then they followed that beer with another. And another after that. They drank to knowledge. They drank to revenge. They drank to money. They drank to big ass mamas and cheating sluts. They drank to rotting cadavers waiting to be carved open by smart-ass medical students
. They drank to big, long, safe master bedroom closets full of dresses and sweaters and women’s smelly shoes.
When Robinson finally left the bar, Jerry knew he was more than a little drunk and implored him to be careful. The last thing either of them needed was a DWI. He even suggested that he drive Robinson home.
But Robinson found his keys and waved him off. “I be fine. Plus, what's Sondra gonna say if a white boy drive me home drunk? Like I say, I be fine.” Unbeknownst to Jerry, Robinson wasn’t going straight home. He was stopping off at the Adams Lounge first for his usual Thursday night boozing.
Jerry stayed behind in the bar and ordered a hamburger and fries. He drank two glasses of water, no more beer. Stupid, he said to himself. Getting drunk was the last thing he needed.
He left the bar at around nine feeling pretty much sober and made it back to his motel without incident. He laid down on the bed and stretched out. After a minute or so, he started laughing. Sometimes there was justice in the world. This had certainly turned out to be Willie Robinson’s lucky day. He had fallen into unexpected riches and freedom from the awful job as an Anatomical Preparator, a body guy, toiling in the lonely morgue washing and disposing of cadavers in the dark basement of the medical school lab. Never again would Willie Robinson have to go home smelling like formaldehyde.
Jerry closed his eyes and tried to get his bearings. It had been a long last few days and all the stress and running around was finally getting to him. And the five or six beers with the body guy that evening hadn’t helped.
The plan had been for him to call Jeff that night and tell him that he knew everything and that he wanted two million dollars, one for himself, and one for the body guy. And if he didn’t get it, he’d turn himself in and cop a decent plea for himself and Willie Robinson.
But before Jerry ever got a chance to make that call, he fell asleep.
The Anonymous Man Page 12