The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  Jon yanked a tuft of hair from Pumpkin Eater’s head. Yeah, it hurt.

  “When was the last time you performed a self-audit?” Jon asked, stern.

  “Please. I have been canonized. I’m without fault.”

  “Then why are you hesitating?”

  Pumpkin Eater snatched his tuft of hair, taking exception, rolling it between his fingertips. His face grew colorless, his expression, rigid. Awkward. Buddy’s glassy, bloodshot eyes fixed on him, eager for scandal.

  “Desecrated mother of Constantine.” Pumpkin Eater whispered to himself, dumbfounded.

  “Why, Peter? How could you tell Buddy such a thing?”

  “But the scriptures…”

  “The scriptures. Written and compiled decades after I left and translated so many times they’ve become their translators’ own interpretations, every last verse subject to even further distortion. I stood for tolerance and social justice and absolute compassion. Everywhere I went, that’s what I preached so why wasn’t that written down on every page? I certainly wasn’t stuttering.”

  Jon’s words carried conviction. Pumpkin Eater collapsed into a sitting position, numb.

  “Wow. That was beautiful.” Buddy said, his eyes beginning to swell. He was actually biting down on his lip in an effort to fight off a tear.

  “Get away from that ledge, Buddy. Come here.” Jon beckoned.

  The crowd cursed loudly as Buddy disappeared from view. Buddy approached Jon, taking him in a tight hug. It wasn’t long before Buddy waved for Pumpkin Eater to join in.

  “Come on, group hug.”

  Pumpkin Eater, his halo shattered, found his feet and joined in.

  A hostile paramedic strapped Buddy onto a gurney as Jon and Pumpkin Eater lingered nearby.

  “Second time this week. You need to get a job, pal.” the paramedic sneered.

  “I could’ve been a tailor once, but I wasn’t suited for it.”

  “Sure, go ahead and joke, but you know what this means, right? Involuntary commitment. Say good-bye to freedom for a while.”

  The paramedic and his co-worker loaded Buddy into an ambulance roughly, so roughly that Buddy’s satchel with his Polaroid and photos dislodged from his body and fell onto the pavement.

  “My camera. Guys, I dropped my camera.”

  The paramedics ignored him, slamming the doors shut and squealing off. Jon retrieved the satchel, tucking a few photos that had spilled out back inside.

  “I’ll keep this safe in the apartment until he gets out.” Jon told Pumpkin Eater, continuing with…“What did that guy mean by involuntary commitment?”

  “It’s the law here. If someone has proven to be an imminent danger to themselves or others, that someone can be held indefinitely without offering their consent.”

  “How long is ‘indefinitely’?”

  “A few days. No big deal.”

  “We’ll be gone in a few days.”

  “Yes. I’ll pay him a visit before we leave. Return his camera. Plus, it’ll afford me the opportunity to apologize.”

  Jon turned to Pumpkin Eater, completely impressed that he would utter such a sentiment.

  “You know, that must’ve knocked off a few hundred demerits from your total…which was how high, by the way?”

  “Let’s not talk about that.”

  December 30, 1989 – 12:56 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

  Imagine a single room apartment where every stick of furniture in that single room apartment was dropped from ten thousand feet. Welcome to Jon’s single room apartment.

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater arrived at their door to see Fusco, the lead robbery detective, speaking to the building’s superintendent. Behind him, an official dusted items for prints.

  “Are you the residents here?” Fusco asked Jon and Pumpkin Eater.

  Jon and Pumpkin Eater answered in the affirmative and the superintendent vouched for them – they signed the lease. Fusco explained to them that their apartment had been ransacked and that the superintendent called the police over the racket. Unfortunately, the burglars got away.

  “Any idea who might’ve done this? Or why?” Fusco asked, gauging them.

  When Jon and Pumpkin Eater shrugged, clueless, Fusco continued his line of questioning.

  “Because this doesn’t appear to have been a random burglary. Look around. Whoever did this, they were looking for something.”

  Fusco knew that his sons hadn’t found the briefcase and his latest statements were meant to measure Jon and Pumpkin Eater, to see how they would react. His experience had taught him how to spot the difference between deception and credulity and it didn’t take long for Fusco to determine that Jon and Pumpkin Eater were nothing more than a pair of shmucks. They knew nothing. If they were involved at all, Grace was playing them too.

  Fusco was running out of time. He made a mental note to buy a pair of cell phones, the same type Rogers carried around. One for him and one for Tony. They were prohibitively expensive at the time, upwards of one thousand dollars each, not including the phone plan, but he needed to keep Grace under constant surveillance now and couldn’t afford for Tony to be searching around for public phone booths to keep him abreast of her wanderings. Hopefully, she’d make her move soon – and he or Tony would be there to kill her and snatch the briefcase.

  Rocco would be entrusted to shake down homeless men in the area around the alley. Maybe he’d get lucky and find a witness.

  In the meantime, Fusco planned to research distant, less civilized lands in case he needed to disappear. He had not managed to misappropriate, or otherwise contaminate DNA evidence from Foster’s hotel suite after all. Briefcase or no briefcase, he needed to kill Grace before homicide arrested her and got her to talk. Then there was LaPomme to worry about too.

  Jon arrived at Grace’s apartment door the following evening at 7pm. Right on time. He knocked, announcing it was Jon after Grace called out from behind a closed door, asking who it was. Cooper began to growl.

  “Is your chaperone with you?” Grace asked, teasing, never opening the door.

  “No.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “I told him.”

  “Think he’ll snitch on you? To your mother, I mean. About you arriving back well after dark.”

  “He bought me my new outfit.”

  “Then you have his blessing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice. Did you bring me the bill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, give me a moment and meet me in the lobby downstairs. I don’t want to leave my dog locked up in the bedroom and you don’t want to find yourself soaking in a tub again.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Two minutes… hey, one more thing. There was a disturbance over in your building last night. What happened?”

  “Someone broke into our apartment.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know, they got away.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  “It’s hard to say. They broke everything.”

  Grace put it together. It was Fusco who ransacked Jon’s apartment. He must’ve been keeping her under surveillance and seen who was coming and going from her apartment.

  “Okay, two minutes.”

  Grace slipped the briefcase into a shopping bag.

  Tony was watching from across the street as Jon and Grace exited her building, a cinder block cell phone plugged to his ear.

  “She’s leaving with one of the men from across the street. Not the handsome one, the other one. She’s carrying a huge shopping bag, I think from Saks.”

  Tony kept eyeballing them as Grace stripped a tarp from her beat-up clunker and placed the shopping bag in the trunk. She and Jon drove off. Tony hung up with Fusco and followed.

  I’ve noticed, anecdotally, that what clergy say at a departed person’s funeral often doesn’t reflect reality, that is, they always say the nicest things, regardless.

  A sea of sobbing mourners, all sporting dark su
nglasses even though the sun had already set, were gathered around a fresh gravesite, every one of them dressed in black. Admittedly, this was not a conventional daytime burial but these assembled guests preferred it that way. A priest eulogized over the casket.

  “We, and The Almighty in heaven… from where Gerald is looking down at us right now… we all recognize that he was a doting father to his children, a loving, devoted husband, a well-respected pillar of the community. And a saint. A genuine saint. That’s who Gerald Selbano was.”

  The bereaved widow began to wail uncontrollably.

  Jon and Grace stood by a gnarled oak on a hilltop overlooking the proceedings. Overlooking much of Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery, as a matter of fact. Grace was reasonably sure she had shaken Tony and now she was busy surveying the area, scouting out a good location from which to observe Rogers’ movements without being seen. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Jon had been looking at her differently tonight.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been looking at me funny all night. It’s creeping me out. Stop it.”

  The truth was, he had been regarding her differently all night. She was Mary Magdalene.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

  “Tell me something. You got any tattoos?” she asked.

  “Me?”

  “No, I’m asking the tree standing there right behind you. Yeah, you.”

  “No.”

  “Ever think of getting one?”

  “No.”

  “I always get one to chronicle major events in my life. This was my first.”

  She bared her shoulder.

  “Got it after my initial brawl while I was locked up in juvie for the first time. It’s only a rose, but it symbolizes my delicate beauty and warns others to handle me with care or my thorns will get them.”

  She unzipped her pants, exposing a bit of flesh on her back, revealing a lacy ladder meandering through intricate designs and patterns.

  “This was my second. Stairway to heaven, baby. Got it after I fully committed to change my profession. Suggests I’m a slut, but that’s the point. The artwork here symbolizes valuable possessions. I’m worth the climb. See what I’m getting at?”

  “I… suppose.” Jon responded, remembering that his father commanded the Israelites not to place tattoo markings on their bodies. She was a gentile, however. It was probably OK. Yeah. They were on different pages.

  “I saw one the other day that would be perfect for you.” Grace continued. “A lion breaking free from its cage, devouring an armadillo.”

  The image repulsed Jon.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I love animals and I hate to see anything killed, but I love symbolism too. That tattoo symbolizes complete victory over deep-seated inhibitions. Lets people know you’ve taken back your life. No more artificial constraints or impediments for you.”

  “You think I’ve been dealing with artificial constraints and impediments?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Why? Because I still live with my mother?”

  “You still live with your mother?”

  “In a large community.”

  “Jesus Christ. Look, it’s not because you still live with your mother. Don’t ask me how I know what I know about you, or why I know you need saving, I just do. Chalk it up to my female intuition, but I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you in that alley.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on Jon.

  “I need saving?” he asked.

  “Spiritually speaking, I mean. Don’t worry, I’m going to help you out, who knows why I feel so compelled. Maybe you helped me in a similar way once in a past life. I’m karmically indebted now. That tattoo design is you, Jonny boy. Or rather, it’s who you can be, who you deserve to be. Think about it.”

  Grace spotted Rogers toting a duffel bag as he entered the cemetery grounds on foot, scanning his surroundings.

  “What are we doing here?” Jon asked.

  “I’m planning my retirement. Come on, let’s go. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Rogers had been walking for a while now. This area of the cemetery was deserted and he was becoming anxious. Jon unexpectedly materialized from the shadows, shopping bag in hand.

  “Mr. Brandon Rogers?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Grace sent me.”

  Rogers didn’t like the looks of things so he pulled a weapon.

  “Where is she?” Rogers asked, eyes flashing.

  Grace rose up right behind him, pressing Foster’s gun against the back of his head.

  “I’m touched. You missed me.” Grace said.

  She relieved Rogers of his gun.

  “I should’ve known you’d pull something like this.” Rogers said, grim now.

  “What’s happening?” Jon asked Grace. “You told me you were old friends. You wanted to surprise him.”

  “We are. And I did.” Grace responded as her focus shifted back to Rogers. “That shopping bag he’s carrying, it contains what you want. This duffel bag you’re carrying better contain what I want. Open it.”

  Rogers opened it to reveal green on green. Grace took it, chin-nodding to Jon as a signal for him to hand Rogers the shopping bag. Jon complied. Rogers took it, opening up the briefcase to reveal the skeleton key.

  “You have no idea what this means.” Rogers said, his smile seeming to extend off his face.

  “Sure I do. It’s called coastal living, baby.” Grace countered.

  “One million dollars. I would’ve given up my entire fortune.” Rogers said before disappearing. Grace sneered.

  “Asshole.”

  “Did you just use me as an unwitting accomplice for ill-gotten gain?” Jon asked, troubled.

  “Relax, I’ll cut you in for a percentage.”

  “I’m not interested in money. Was that briefcase even yours?”

  “It’s his now.”

  Jon just shook his head, completely disappointed in her. And himself.

  “Are you a Christian?” Grace asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, good. Then you can appreciate that you should accept people for who they are because your pal Jesus certainly did. You didn’t see him walking around judging people.”

  “I wasn’t judging you. I was judging your actions.”

  “Let me tell you something. If Jesus does exist, he’d forgive me. Wanna know why? He realized that it’s possible for someone to be a thief, or a prostitute, without ever really becoming either. Ask Mary Magdalene. That’s what he told her.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not what he said.”

  “I attended Catholic school from grade four to eight. That’s what they told us he said, paraphrased, but along those lines. Happened right after he saved her from being stoned to death because she was accused of being a prostitute, that whole thing about he who was without sin casting the first stone – it’s a fucking famous story!”

  “You were misinformed. He told her the physical scars associated with selling her flesh were temporary and fleeting. The spiritual scars were everlasting, so go forth and do it no more. That’s what he said.”

  “Whatever. Fuck you.”

  “Really? That’s your reply?”

  “Yeah, that’s my reply. So I’m a thief and a whore. What the fuck have you done for mankind, lately?”

  But before Jon got the chance to respond…

  PFFT!

  A bullet ripped into Grace’s chest near her shoulder, spinning her ninety degrees, but she was still on her feet, dazed. She dropped the duffel bag from nerveless fingers.

  Jon tackled her to the ground, landing on top of her, looking up to see Tony snaking through a tangle of bushes, trying to frame her in the crosshairs of a scope mounted on a high-powered rifle fitted with a silencer.

  Tony had found her after all. He spotted her parked car in
the cemetery lot and wandered onto the grounds to look for her. Fusco had impatiently told him to kill her – just get it done. Forensics were close to sending Homicide their findings, which would link her, making her arrest imminent thereafter. She had to go. If she was indeed carrying the case in that shopping bag, take that too, but kill her.

  Pfft! Another bullet sailed impotently over Jon’s head, ricocheting off a headstone.

  Jon lifted Grace to her feet. Tony rose to his feet too, firing wildly now. Jon hurled himself and Grace down an embankment, into a muddy ravine. He landed awkwardly, temporarily stunned, paralyzed. The duffel bag didn’t make the trip.

  Completely panicked and in shock from her injury, Grace picked herself up and fled toward a wooded area nearby – a place where old ghosts surely prowled.

  Tony appeared at the crest of the hill in time to see Grace in the distance, stumbling into the wooded area. He noticed the duffel bag lying there and picked it up, lumbering after her instead of checking its contents just yet. Perhaps because he was still wearing a neck brace and was hampered by limited neck movement, Tony failed to see Jon finally beginning to stir down below in the mud.

  Grace had been running for a while through an eerie fog, clutching her wound. It was bleeding more precipitously now because her heart was pounding so fast. She finally stopped, ducking behind a mass of tufted growth. Listening. Had she lost the gunman? She checked her gaping wound and freaked. It was serious.

  Somehow, she calmed herself down enough to allow herself to hear something. The sound of passing traffic. There was a road nearby. She set out in the noise’s direction through that same eerie fog. Just another hundred feet maybe, it sounded so close now. A blend of hope and relief began to sparkle in her eyes, when suddenly – branching algae snagged her feet.

  Splat! She fell hard, face-first, into four feet of polluted marsh. Bobbing there on the surface.

  Some distance away, Jon heard the splash. He had followed Tony into the thicket, hoping to find Grace before Tony did, and now he had lost both of them. Jon moved cautiously toward the source of the noise, spotting the surface of the marsh rippling through a clump of reeds.