by Simon Wood
Hope’s unstoppable grasp around my throat lessened with the first blow and fell away with the second, but I continued to rain down the blows. I don’t remember how many times I smashed the Club down on her head. A dozen? Maybe more? Maybe less? I just remember Lance dragging me off her.
The two of us stared at Hope. She was still and silent. Blood masked the damage I’d done to her face.
“Shit, man. What the fuck have you done?” Lance said, his voice a whisper.
I didn’t know. I’m not making excuses but I wasn’t myself in that moment. I just shook my head in reply.
As quickly as the rage had taken over, it was gone, leaving me drained and myself again. I saw things as they really were. I’d killed her. I didn’t need to check. Her skull was caved in. Scant hair and flesh had given way to expose a brain bristling with bone shards. My violence had completely warped her features. It was impossible to tell what sex Hope was under the blood-soaked distortion.
“Oh, Christ,” Lance said, recoiling from me.
I climbed to my feet, the Club still in my grasp. Blood and brain was pooling at my feet. Scarlet continued to drip from the Club, pitter-pattering on the concrete. Gore had rubbed against my pants, leaving behind condemning smears. I was numb. I felt like the kid at school who pees his pants in front of the class. When you’re like that, you don’t know what to do with yourself. The Club slipped from my grasp, landing in the blood and splashing my shoes.
I was shutting down. I could feel it. As the realization set in, my systems switched themselves off. Speech, movement, thought, all went into hibernation. I simply just stood there, staring at a person I’d killed.
“C’mon, we’re gonna have to clear this shit up,” Lance instructed.
I was lucky to have him there. If I hadn’t, I probably would have stood there until the cops turned up. But seeing him spring into action, his drunken haze evaporated, drew me out of my shock-ridden stupor. The best thing he did, and I’ll thank him until the day I die, was he didn’t ask me why. He just took over.
Lance snatched several sheets of newspaper off the ground and picked up the Club. He found a plastic bag and stuffed the weapon inside. He told me to put it in the Jeep and park the car at the end of the alley, keeping us out of sight. When I’d done that, I rejoined him. He was crouched over Hope’s battered form. Luckily for us, Hope’s blood wasn’t spattered as far as I expected. When she’d gone down, she’d landed on a bunch of trash bags next to the dumpsters. The bag supporting Hope’s mashed head also supported the slop that had run out of it. Some days, you’re just plain lucky.
“What do you want to do with her?” I asked.
“Let’s put her body in the dumpster. The cops will know she’s a hooker. They won’t give a shit who did it. They’ll probably pin it on her pimp.”
It sounded reasonable enough. But when you’re fucked and you’re looking for a way out, anything sounds reasonable.
I flipped open the closest dumpster. It was nearly full. I hoped it meant that collection day was close. She would be in a landfill before she had a chance to stink up the alley. I returned to Lance as he manhandled Hope’s remains. I took her legs. We hoisted her off the trash bags. Hope’s head flopped down under its own weight. Brain and fluid leaked out.
“Christ!” I shrieked, and we dropped her immediately.
We tried again. This time, to prevent spillage, I bagged Hope’s head, but Lance had the unholy job of supporting her skull. It wasn’t an easy task. Hope might have been tall and slender, but lifeless, her body was slack, all inherent strength gone. Handling her was like handling a length of rope. She weighed no more than me, but lifting a totally compliant mass was difficult. It was called dead weight for a reason.
We carried the corpse over to the dumpster, clean and jerked like power lifters to ensure no more of Hope’s brain fell out and hefted her in. We covered her with the trash bags left in the alley.
There was still the matter of the blood in the alley and on our clothes. We had nothing to change into, so we had to risk leaving blood on the car seats, but luck was on our side again. Lance’s seats were leather and blood wouldn’t penetrate the material as much as fabric. Hopefully, a good detailing would eliminate the traces. But we couldn’t worry about that. We’d spent too much time in the alley already. It was time to haul ass.
Lance stamped on the gas and we raced from the alley. He didn’t take me home. He drove west, out of the city and towards the reservoir. At that time of night, the place was deserted and unattended by security. Stopping at the fishermen’s boat launch, he handed me the Club, my murder weapon. I didn’t have to ask what to do next. I took it and ran to the end of the jetty and hurled the damn thing as far and as high I could. The Club’s weight gave it momentum, carrying it out sixty or seventy feet before it sunk like a stone. The thing was gone, I knew, but I remained rooted to the spot to make sure it wasn’t going to make a reappearance. I waited until circular waves created by the Club crashing through the water, had totally dissipated before rejoining Lance in the Jeep. Then, I knew it was over. We were in the clear.
Lance drove me home. We didn’t say much during the drive and when we did, I felt the formal stiffness associated with meeting a stranger, not my best man. Lance didn’t mention Hope and I guessed that was the way it was going to be. Neither of us was to mention the hooker again. It was over. In the past. History.
Lance’s silence bothered me. I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing. In all honesty I wanted to talk it out, get it off my chest and give Lance an outlet for his shock and complicity. But we didn’t. Maybe things would have been different if we had. Funny, I keep saying maybe. Crazy, I know, but that night and nights that followed, I made mistake after mistake, and if I’d really thought about what I was doing, things might have turned out better. Maybe.
“The limo service knows the time?” Lance said after a ten-minute silence.
“Huh?”
“For the wedding. They know to pick us up at my place at eleven and not to come to your place?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, they know.”
“Just to make sure, I’ll check tomorrow. Have you got their number?”
“I’ve got the guy’s card on me.” I fumbled for my wallet. I came up with pocket lint. My wallet was gone. “I’ve lost my wallet.” My mouth was dry when the words crept out.
“Did you leave it in the strip club?” Lance’s question sounded like a plea.
“No. I know I had it coming out.”
“Then where?”
“The alley. It’s the only place it can be.”
Lance was silent again. Bile was in my mouth.
I glanced over at Lance. As the Cherokee flashed by each streetlight, I caught sight of his red and puffy face around his eyes where Hope had Maced him. “We’ve gotta go back.”
Lance nodded.
***
We turned into the alley for the second time that night. It was empty except for the dumpsters, trash—and Hope’s body. Lance cut the engine but not the lights. We got out.
“Where do you think you dropped it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Dunno. It could have fallen out anywhere.”
“Shit.”
“We’ll just have to look.”
It was such a benign statement. I suppose I should have sounded more dramatic under the circumstances. We were searching for the one piece of vital evidence that could condemn both of us to the chair, after all. But everyone’s different. No one knows how they will react in these situations unless they’ve been in them.
The night wind gusted, causing the trash to dance. Urban tumbleweeds clung to our legs as we scoured every square inch of the alley. We found nothing. Lance cursed again and my stomach dissolved to liquid. I thought my next meal would be my last. What do condemned men eat?
“It’s gotta be here,” I said, a stammer worming its way into my speech. “Where else can it be?”
Lance stared back into the street. “There i
s one place we haven’t checked.”
“Where?”
“The Dumpster.”
My Adam’s apple caught in my throat. Lance didn’t mean the Dumpster. He meant Hope. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. That was my first inkling that Lance wasn’t going to bear up for the long haul.
“I’ll check.”
Lance didn’t leap to my rescue to take my place. And I doubt I would have if I were in his shoes.
I threw open the Dumpster lid. Lance nixed the Cherokee’s headlights. We didn’t need an audience and I didn’t want to see my handiwork. I vaulted inside. My foot snagged on a hefty bag and I collapsed onto Hope, my hands slipping in something sticky and warm. I fought my gag reflex. I unhooked her purse from her shoulder and rifled through it. My wallet wasn’t there. I patted down Hope’s still warm corpse. I discovered a rigid mass in her bra and it wasn’t a falsie. Tucked inside were my wallet and the sixty bucks. I yanked them out.
“The bitch picked my pocket,” I announced.
“Who cares?” Lance said with both eyes on the street. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
***
The wedding was a nightmare. Lance’s face was an embarrassment. It was all jacked up from the Mace. The area around his eyes was swollen and red raw as if he'd been sunburned. When the photographer snapped the photos, Jane insisted he wear foundation to hide the purple and blue bruising. I fared little better. I seemed to have changed shape. My wedding suit didn’t fit me. The jacket hung lopsided. My tie kept unraveling. I kept tripping over my own feet. It was obvious we were guilty, but of what, we weren’t letting on. Not even the blank expressions we carried, gave us away. Dreams of the perfect wedding went down the crapper. Jane hasn’t forgiven me. Neither have her parents.
But Hawaii was good for me. I was three thousand miles away from the city, my crime—and Lance. Although I hated to admit it, I relaxed, becoming myself again. Jane softened, willing to cut me a little slack for the wedding shambles. I loved my honeymoon and I couldn’t stop grinning.
Lance wiped that grin off my face within hours of returning home. The son of a bitch managed it with a simple phone call.
“It’s for you,” Jane said, covering the mouthpiece. “I think it’s Lance.”
I nodded, matching her confused expression, and took the phone. “Lance?”
“Mark, we need to talk.”
“How about a welcome back, man?”
Jane hung around in the hallway with a worried look on her face. I shooed her away with a hand and smile. I mouthed, “It’s okay. I won’t be long.”
“I don’t have time for small talk. We need to meet now. We’re in big shit.”
Jane left reluctantly for the living room.
My smile dropped. “What’s up?”
“Just meet me at my place. Now.”
I hung up. “Janey, I’ve gotta go out for a while. I’ll be back soon.”
She darted back into the hallway as I slipped on a coat. “Where are you going with Lance? You two got mixed up in something before the wedding.”
I took her in my arms and rocked her and played down the situation. “Don’t worry so much. We had a little trouble on my bachelor night.”
“I knew it.” She stiffened and backed away from me.
“It was nothing heavy. Lance, as usual, mouthed off to the wrong guy and got his answer in fist form. But that’s dead and buried.” Unfortunate choice of words. “He wants my advice on something. I think he and Katie have been fighting again.”
“You two worry me sometimes.”
I kissed her on the nose. “I wouldn’t worry. I think he gets lonely now that I’m a married man.”
“At least one of you is a grownup.”
***
When Lance opened the door, he was grim-faced. Dark circles ringed his eyes, making his pale complexion even paler. He looked as if he had the flu. But fear wasn’t a symptom of the flu and that was what I saw in his eyes. Something had happened, something serious. That scared me. He’d been the strong one, not me. I was the one who lost his shit, not him.
“Hey, bud,” I said, keeping things light.
“Come in,” he said, scanning the street behind me. Taking my arm, he pulled me through the doorway and guided me into his den. “We’re in big trouble,” he said, closing the door.
“What kind?” It was a stupid thing to say. I knew what the trouble was. Correction, I thought I knew.
“I’ve been sitting on this while you were on your honeymoon.”
Lance unlocked a wall cabinet and rifled through it, retrieving a newspaper. He jammed the paper in my hands. I scanned the front page. I saw nothing that affected us.
“Page three,” Lance urged.
I turned to page three and there it was. Transgender Murdered and Stashed in Dumpster, the headline blazed. I scanned the article. Hope’s real name was Kenneth Meany and he was thirty-eight. The story described Meany as transgender and well-known prostitute before descending into the grisly details of which I was all too fully aware. The story finished with the obligatory request for witnesses to come forward. The newspaper was dated the day of my flight to Maui.
“This is two weeks old. What’s happened since?”
“Lots.”
“Have the police approached you?”
“No.”
“What’s been in the papers?”
“Nothing.”
“Then I don’t know what you’ve been worrying about. We didn’t think that Hope would go unnoticed forever.”
“Mark.”
“We knew someone would find her. And when someone did, it would end up in the news.”
“Mark, listen.”
“The newspaper story is normal, something to expect. There’s nothing I can see that should be a cause for concern.”
I went to carry on, but Lance’s third interruption silenced me.
“Mark, we were seen.”
Lance transferred his fear to me, a killer transfusion in a lethal dose. I took a life-sapping jolt of the stuff and understood the chronic change in my friend. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.
“What do they want?” I managed after a long moment.
“To bring them cash,” Lance said without emotion.
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
***
“Did you get it all?” I asked.
“Yes,” Lance replied and opened the same wall cabinet that housed the newspaper. He pulled out a padded envelope and tossed it at me. “There’s my share.”
I caught the envelope and took out the cash. I gave it a quick count—five grand. I returned the cash to the envelope, adding my five thousand.
“Will Jane wonder where the cash went?” Lance continued rummaging in the cabinet.
“Nah, she doesn’t know all my bank accounts.”
Lance found what he was looking for and pulled out a gun.
“Jesus, Lance! We don’t need that. Put the damn thing away.”
“Yes, we do.” He pulled back the slide on the automatic and released it. It snapped back into position, sounding like a tree branch snapping. “We’re going to need all the protection we can get.”
“All he wants is the money. He won’t hurt us.”
“The guy was Hope’s fucking pimp. He doesn’t ride the same rails as we do.”
“Still, the guy is a businessman. He’ll understand basic economics.”
“His name is Blade. I doubt the guy is a Zen-fucking-Buddhist.”
“Don’t bring the gun, Lance,” I insisted. “Please.”
“Fuck you, Mark. I’m bringing it. We wouldn’t be in this shit if you hadn’t lost your mind. You couldn’t just bitch slap the prick. No, you had to smash the fucker’s brains in.”
At last, Lance pointed a finger. He had to have been bottling it up and I couldn’t really blame him. I tried to argue with him, but couldn’t. We were too late for that.<
br />
“Okay, bring the damn thing, if it’ll make you happy.”
***
The sign said Davis Park was closed. A bar draped across the entrance and exit to the parking lot confirmed the fact. But that never stopped anyone from using the facilities. The park exhibited all the signs of misuse—used condoms, hypodermics, graffiti and pointless vandalism. And we were adding to the park credentials—extortion. Lance parked on the street.
Scurrying over the low masonry wall, I said, “What a great place to come.”
“Not our call, is it?” Lance said sourly. “This way.”
The barbecue area was deserted, except for a young black couple doing what teenage couples do.
Getting close, I whispered, “Is that Blade?”
I didn’t whisper quietly enough. The girl’s beau, with a close cropped afro, overheard me. “What the fuck do you want, asshole?”
His girl uncurled from around him. She was good-looking with a foul mouth. “Yeah, bitch. What have you got to say for yourself?”
“.32 automatic,” Lance replied, bringing the gun out. “What have you got to say now, asshole?”
Anger boiled underneath the teenager’s eyes, only tempered by his fear. The girl was all fear. We could have milked her and sold the stuff to medical science. Lance flicked off the safety and the kids bolted. We didn’t let their seats go cold and sat at the picnic table.
“When are we supposed to meet?” I asked.
“At ten.” Lance didn’t put the gun away.
I checked my watch, two minutes ‘til. I was still checking my watch at twenty after and thirty after. It wasn’t until forty-five after that I realized what Blade was up to.
“He’s testing us,” I said.
“Who? Blade?”
“Yeah. He wants to see if we brought anyone with us or if we went to the cops. I bet the son of a bitch has been here for hours.” I scanned the park. It was impossible to tell if anyone was hiding out in the trees, the baseball field or any of the accessory buildings. “He’ll know you’re armed.”