by Gary Parker
Mesmerized by the sound, she felt a sense of peace, almost as if God had given her these few minutes to calm her soul. Still listening to the birds, she watched as Sandra finished with the hitch, then led her up the one wooden step to the trailer home and into the only room.
Connie’s eyes widened. There, lying on a bed in the corner, rested Jack’s grandfather, a thick wooden cane in his left hand and a pistol the length of a small hair dryer in his right.
“Justin!” snapped Sandra. “It’s me, put down that gun!”
Justin squinted, then lowered the weapon. Sandra rushed to him and grabbed it from his hand. “It’s okay now, Justin,” she soothed. “I’m here. And look who I’ve brought with me.”
She turned to Connie and motioned her closer. Though momentarily stunned by the weapon, Connie quickly gathered herself and stepped to Sandra and Justin. Sandra kissed Justin on the cheek. Obviously still confused, he kept his cane in his hand, his knuckles white from gripping it. Connie, her face red with nerves, waited for more instructions.
Sandra gave them. “Move closer,” she said. “He doesn’t see so well right now.”
Connie eased past Sandra and stood directly over Justin beside the small bed. Though certainly sick, he had not allowed himself to become sloppy. Wispy gray whiskers sprouted on his chin, but he had tucked his blue shirt into his khaki slacks. His eyes were a bit glassy and the skin under his chin sagged on his neck. But he had his hair combed. Even the oxygen tubes that ran into each nostril seemed straight and in place.
Staring into his eyes, a wave of joy rushed over Connie.
This man raised Jack! Forgetting she didn’t know him, she touched his hand, the one with the cane, and patted. His fingers relaxed, and the cane slid from his grasp. Taking the cane, Connie said, “Mr. Longley, I’m Connie, Jack’s wife.”
For several seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then, his lips turned upward as if considering something pleasant.
“My cane,” he said, his voice stronger than Connie expected.
Unsure what to do, Connie glanced at Sandra. Sandra nodded, and Connie placed the cane back in his hand. Taking the cane, he lifted his hand slowly, and Connie wondered for a second if he planned to use it against her. But then he pushed the cane to the floor and pressed his weight against it. Connie reached to help him, but he grunted and jerked his head from side to side. She took the cue and stepped back half a pace.
Using the cane for leverage, he raised himself up and squared his shoulders. Sandra stepped past Connie and fluffed his pillows behind his back. Situated, Justin smoothed out the front of his shirt and lifted his eyes to Connie.
“So,” he said, his voice weak but clear. “You came to see me.”
Connie smiled at his dignity. So much like Jack. “It’s my pleasure,” she said. “I loved the boy you raised.”
Justin smiled too, his teeth still white in spite of his age.
“He was . . . a good . . . boy. I’ve missed him.”
Connie’s eyes glistened. “I miss him too.”
Justin grunted, then tapped his cane on the side of the bed.
“Why don’t you sit . . . down? I’ve got a story to tell, and I don’t know how long I’ll last. So . . . you better . . . sit down and hear it.”
Connie glanced at Sandra. Sandra nodded, then said to Justin, “I’ll get you some water. I expect you’ll need it.” She turned and moved away.
Justin tapped the side of the bed again. “Sit,” he said.
Connie obeyed this time, squeezing onto the narrow slice of bed unused by Justin. Sandra came back and handed him the water. He sipped it for several long seconds, then handed Sandra the glass. She placed it on a small table beside his head.
“I don’t know if I can . . . can tell it all at once,” he said. “I’m a mite weak these days.”
“You sound strong enough to me,” said Sandra, smiling at him.
“I saved up the last twenty . . . twenty-four hours,” he said.
“Knew . . . knew you’d bring Connie.” He wheezed slightly.
Connie looked at Sandra, worry in her eyes.
“He’s okay,” Sandra said. “Just loses his air at times.
Usually, he’s fine, can talk for good stretches without much trouble. He’ll know when he needs to stop.”
Connie faced Justin again. He placed his cane on the floor and pushed up a bit more. “Now,” he said. “Where to begin?”
Connie repositioned herself. In spite of the tragedy of the last three weeks, she felt like a child on Christmas Eve. Finally, the time had come to learn what happened to Jack. Justin cleared his throat and adjusted the oxygen tubes running into his nose.
“Now . . .” he began. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t for certain know who killed Jack. But I . . . I do have a theory. My theory comes from some things that came to pass a long time ago, back when you and Jack were two little sprites. As I tell you this, you’re going to think it’s all crazy, that it has no connection . . . to what you’ve just suffered. But stay patient with me for a few . . . few minutes. Listen to what I say. Then make up your mind.” He stopped for her to respond if she wanted. She nodded quickly, and he continued.
“Of course . . . you never knew Jack’s daddy. But I got to tell you something about him. He was my son-in-law and he was a good man, but . . . well . . . he had himself a weakness. Not the bottle, nor any other drug. And he didn’t chase other women either. So far as I know, he stayed faithful to Jack’s mama, God rest her soul. But Bill couldn’t say no to the lure of the gamble— cards, blackjack, roulette, the slots—you name it, that boy couldn’t walk by it without giving it a try.
“I don’t know when the bug bit him—neither he nor Barbara ever explained any of that to me. But out in Nevada where he grew up, the bug bites a bunch of folks. So, as soon as he graduated from high school, he headed to Vegas. That city drew Bill like syrup draws an ant.
“He met my baby Barbara there. She worked at a hotel I owned. Bill stayed at my hotel from time to time. From the beginning, she knew he loved to gamble, but that didn’t seem to matter much—you know how love can blind us.
“Anyway, she and Bill got married, and it looked for a while like he would stay home and do right. He took a job as a maintenance supervisor at a high school outside of Vegas. He always did well with his hands, mechanical and all. He and Barbara had Jack the second year of their marriage. But within a couple of years, the wheels fell off. Bill lost his job, never quite understood why, a problem with a union or something. After that, everything crumbled—from bad to worse.
“Instead of finding another job or coming to me for help, he took what money he had and tried to make a quick score at the blackjack table. He lost like usual. Trying to make up what he lost, he borrowed money from the wrong people—a couple of brothers who ran the sharking racket in and around Vegas. With the borrowed money, he kept on playing. Playing and losing.
His debts piled up higher and higher.
“For several years, he stayed about one step ahead of the collectors. He’d win just enough or work just enough to pay down a bit of his debt. From time to time, I gave Barbara some money, too, but he never asked for it. He had his pride that way.
“But then he’d lose again, and the mound of debt would get a little deeper. Finally, the debt grew so big, the sharks couldn’t let it go anymore. They had to collect or lose credibility with everyone else who owed them.
“They found Bill . . . and called in the loans. He couldn’t pay.”
Justin stopped and waved his hand at the glass of water by his head. Connie grabbed the water, handed it to him, then waited as he took a big drink. Handing her the glass back, he licked his lips, adjusted his oxygen tubes, then pressed on with the story.
“Most times, in situations like this, the guy in debt ends up with a two-paragraph obituary in the Las Vegas newspaper. But not this time. The sharks offered Bill a deal he couldn’t refuse.
They offered him a way to pay back
all his debts in one fell swoop.”
He swallowed, and Connie could see the talking had taken a toll. His breath began to come in shorter gasps, and his face dropped a notch in color.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “If you need to rest—”
He patted her hand. She noted the purple veins in his wrist.
“I’m all right,” he said, a tiny smile on his face. “I know I look like death warmed over, but like . . . like they say, appearances can deceive. So . . . as I was saying . . . the sharks offered Bill a deal . . . a business transaction. Do one job for them and they . . . they would tear up all his notes . . . clean up his debts in one fell swoop.”
Justin closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Connie noted the veins on his hands seemed thicker, and she sensed a tension seeping into the room. His eyes still closed and his voice softer, but no less intense, Justin pushed on.
“They told him to kill a man. As simple as that. Kill or be killed. He got to choose. Pay them off with the hit and go back to his wife and baby boy or never see the light of day again.”
Justin opened his eyes and stared at Connie as if to test her reaction.
She touched his hand. “What did he do?”
“He decided to take the offer. Didn’t see any way around it. He . . . he agreed to the deal. They gave him the name of a hotel in Vegas, told him the target would be in room 312 on August 22. They handed him a key to the room and a gun with a silencer on it.”
Justin nodded for the water again. Connie handed it to him, her neck splotching with red, her teeth digging into her upper lip. Justin sipped the water as if he had all the time in the world.
Connie wanted to pour it down his throat to make it go faster but resisted the temptation. Finally, Justin finished the water and passed the glass to Connie. She placed it on the table and faced him again. He continued the story.
“August 22 came, time to do the deed. In the middle of the night, Bill drove to the hotel, took the elevator to the third floor, slipped the key in the lock, and eased into the room. The lights from outside the windows lit it. With the gun shaking in his hand, Bill stepped to the bed. The man in the bed raised up and stared Bill right in the eyes. Bill pressed his finger on the trigger.
The man never said a word. Bill suddenly started to cry. He couldn’t do it. No matter the danger he would face later, he couldn’t go that far. He was a gambler, but he wasn’t a murderer.
He threw down his gun and ran from the room, never turned back for even a second. . . . ”
A glow of satisfaction showed on Justin’s face, and Connie read the pride in his eyes. His son-in-law had weaknesses, but he hadn’t given in to the worst weakness of all.
“What happened to him?”
“He ran . . . left Vegas with Barbara and Jack. I don’t know to this day where he found the money, but he stayed out of sight for almost two years. Lived all over the place, the West, the Midwest. But, like always, they eventually found him . . . found him in southern Illinois and burned . . . burned down his house, him and Barbara and Jack, barely ten years old, asleep inside.
You know that much. Jack escaped, but Barbara, my . . . my baby . . . ” His voice broke, and tears rolled to the corners of his eyes and slid down his face onto his blue shirt.
Connie twisted and faced Sandra. She stood and brought a wet towel from the sink and brushed it over Justin’s face.
“You need to rest a while?” she asked. “Just lay there a bit?”
Justin pushed away the towel. “Let . . . let me . . . finish,” he said, finding his voice again. “I need to get . . . this done.”
“I know you’ve been holding this a long time,” Sandra agreed. “Just don’t make yourself any sicker.”
“That’s not possible,” he said, his face lighting up. “You can’t . . . can’t kill roadkill but once.”
Sandra grinned briefly, then sat back down.
Justin faced Connie again. “Give me your hand, child,” he said. “Let’s get it said.”
Connie offered her hand, and he gripped it in both of his.
She felt his pulse thumping. He cleared his throat.
“The police called the fire an accident, but I know better.
They killed Bill and Barbara, pure and simple. He owed them big money from his gambling, and the code said they could show no mercy. Thank the good Lord Jack got out. He had this dog, see, a mutt no bigger than a healthy rat. That dog slept in his room, started barking at the smoke and woke him. Jack stumbled outside, then passed out. When he woke up, the flames had gutted the house, his mama and daddy in it.”
Justin stopped and adjusted the oxygen tubes in his nose.
“I know now why Jack hated gambling so much,” Connie said. “It killed his father.”
“It certainly led to his death,” agreed Justin.
“I’m puzzled by one thing,” Connie said.
“I expect you . . . you are,” he said. “I bet I know what it is.
You want to know how I know all this, am I right?”
Connie nodded.
Justin adjusted his oxygen once more, then cleared his throat. “It’s simple, really. I know the story because I’m the man Bill almost murdered.”
Connie gulped. What kind of madness was this? A son-in-law sent to kill his wife’s father? But why? Justin quickly answered her question.
“The sharks Bill owed were Mob guys, that’s no shock.
They needed someone to do a dirty piece of work—kill a guy protected by the FBI. I don’t think we called it witness protection back then, but that’s what it was. I was the guy, had been in the system for almost eleven years. Entered it after a six-year stint as an undercover agent with the Bureau.
“In my last assignment I turned up a murder-for-hire scheme by the wise guys in Atlanta. We got our man, but not before he flushed out my cover. The Bureau had to protect me, so they put me in the witness protection. I decided to set up my new life in Las Vegas. Pretty cute, huh? Go where they least expect you. It worked for a long time. I grew a beard, shaved my head, blended into the city as a transplanted southern boy. But then somebody identified me, a wise guy in town from Atlanta for a recreational weekend. He sent word up the line. They came after me through the sharks who had their hooks into Bill.
Figured if the Feds caught him, they hadn’t lost anything.”
“Did he know it was you from the beginning?”
Justin sighed. “I don’t know. Never got to ask him, but I don’t think so. When he saw me that night in the hotel, the look on his face told me he didn’t know.”
“You never saw him again?”
Justin shook his head. His eyes seemed weaker to Connie, less focused. He licked his lips, then spoke again. His voice floated from his throat, whispery words. He stared into space as he talked.
“Bill . . . took Jack and Barbara and disappeared. They wrote me from time to time, I had moved too. Here to Miller, took another name, opened up a grocery store. Word about the fire came to me a few days later. Folks from Social Services in Carbondale, Illinois, called me, said they found my address on a scrap of envelope in the trunk of Bill’s car. Jack told them he had a granddaddy in Missouri, and he wanted to live with him.”
“That’s when you got Jack.”
“Two days later. A couple of FBI buddies picked Jack up and brought him down. We settled down in Miller.”
“Jack lived with you until he graduated.”
“Exactly. I raised my grandboy, giving . . . giving him . . . the best upbringing I knew . . . knew how . . . ” His eyes fluttered, and his voice trailed away.
Noting Justin’s weakness, Connie turned to Sandra. “You came along when?”
“Oh, about five years later. When my mom died of cancer, I had nowhere else to go. Before she died, Mom told me about her brother. Justin had stayed in touch with her over the years, a phone call here, a letter there. When he found out she was sick, he told her to send me to him. The day of her funeral, he called me. Two days aft
erward he drove to Little Rock, picked me up, brought me to Missouri.”
Her head spinning, Connie closed her eyes. Okay, she knew how Jack’s parents died. She knew how Sandra came to live with Jack. She knew why Justin disappeared the year Jack graduated high school. But she didn’t know how any of this related to Jack’s death.
Opening her eyes, she started to ask Justin the rest of her questions. To her chagrin, she saw he wouldn’t answer any more questions for a while. His head tilted to the side and his mouth gaped slightly open. He had dozed off. In that pose, he appeared ancient and sickly to Connie, and she wondered if he would finish his story before he died.
CHAPTER
26
He’ll sleep a couple of hours,” said Sandra. “Does this everyday, as regular as clockwork. You hungry?”
Connie glanced at her watch. Almost three o’clock.
“Not really,” she said. “But I guess I need to eat something.”
Sandra walked to a small refrigerator in the opposite corner of the tiny room. “I’ll make a sandwich,” she said, pulling out a tomato. “Turkey okay with you?”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Good, that’s all I have.”
The two women laughed, and Connie sighed in relief. As bad as things were, she at least now knew a member of Jack’s family. Even in the worst of times, God could do a good thing.
“You and Jack were close?” she asked Sandra.
“Like brother and sister.”
Connie remembered Sandra’s refusal to explain the breach in their relationship. She fought the urge to probe deeper and changed gears to another confusing issue.
“Did Justin tell Jack about his father after high school?”
Sandra sliced the tomato, her long fingers nimble with the knife. “Yeah, as I told you, the Mob found him again. They may go slow, but they do make progress. The Bureau had picked up the word, and they tipped him off. Set him up with a new name again, a new place to live. But he had to leave us behind that time. Before he did, he told us about his work with the Bureau, why he was under witness protection, why he had to leave. We protested at first, but it didn’t take long to accept it. His way made sense. Though we hated it, we had to let him go.”