15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  I walked into the bar through some wavy bead things over the doorway. I couldn’t believe they still had those horrible beads. It was so seventies it was disturbing, in fact. Maybe they put those beads there so people could hear when somebody new entered the bar. It worked because when I came through those beads that nearly tangled my neck up, I saw everybody divert their attention to me. It didn’t bother me because I knew I was safe in that establishment. I hadn’t frequented it in a few years, but I knew people who still worked there. And, to no surprise of mine, I got a few happy faces at the sight of me entering the bar.

  “Hey, Frank! You son of a bitch! You’re actually here for a change,” a guy I knew by the name of Simons welcomed me with a fist bump to the ribs. “I ain’t seen your ugly mug in a long time. Must be pretty busy down at the station for you to not say hello to your old pal, Simons!” I nodded my head at him and made my way to the bar, which was situated in the far right of the building.

  I had to wade through a few tables occupied by some heavily tattooed men wearing sleeveless shirts and great big beards. I could feel Simons tailing behind me.

  “Can I get you a drink, old boy?” he said as we reached the bar.

  “Whatever you’re having, and make it a double,” I replied.

  Simons paid the guy behind the bar a ten, and in exchange we received two pint glasses of beer and a shot glass of Jack. I thanked Simons, and he showed me to a table that faced the exit. I liked having my back to the wall, and it was nice that Simons still remembered that. It’s an old army thing, you see. Always cover the exits. I never was in the Army, but I learned a lot about being a man from my uncle, who served six tours in Bosnia and the Middle East.

  We sat down and started on our drinks.

  “So, how’s the police business treating you, Frank? Still catching killers and rapists?” Simons asked, starting on his Jack before anything else.

  “You know, same old same old,” I said, keeping my answers reserved. I didn’t like talking about my work, especially to people down the drinking hole.

  We stayed quiet for a while longer as we turned our attentions to washing down our troubles with hard liquor and small talk. We talked about a lot of things. The playoffs was one of them. The World Series was another. The relationship status of some of our favorite movie actresses. It was all pretty benign in the first place. Just small talk to match small minds, if you will. I wasn’t really in the mood to go into huge debates with Simons; I just wanted to relax and have a few drinks. And then my night turned for the worst, as it usually did. An hour into my not-so-interesting encounter with Simons, the beads at the entrance to the bar moved, and four big men entered. Simons looked at me as if to say he was sorry. I didn’t clock on at first, but then I saw what he had on his lap just under the table. His cell phone light died down, but I had put two and two together fast enough to realize what was going on.

  He looked at me with an apologetic smile on his face. “I had to, Frank. You know the rules,” he said.

  With that, I stood up within half a second and grabbed Simons by the head and pushed his face into the table. A large crack was heard, and I noticed Simons bleeding from his nose. It looked as if the prick was still smiling as I held his head down against the table. The music died down like it did in those movies when somebody did something that caught the attention of the whole bar. And it was true in a sense, because everybody was looking at me, wide-eyed and ready to rumble. Part of me knew it was stupid to come down to the bar that Ricardo had frequented. Part of me knew I was testing the boundaries of fate, like sky-diving into a thousand-foot cave. I knew the dangers of me being there, but it didn’t bother me in the slightest. I was ready for whatever was coming my way.

  In fact – I wanted it. That’s why I came to the bar where I knew Ricardo had friends. I knew that was the only way to speed up the process that was surely going on in the background, ticking away like a clock on the wall, counting down to the hours that remain until you get what you deserve.

  “Let him go, Frank,” one of the big men who’d entered the bar said in a husky voice. I knew that man. He was Ricardo’s uncle. Used to be a Marine, apparently. The other three men were Ricardo’s cousins. All three of them were just as big as their daddy, and they were here to make me smaller. Preferably small enough to fit into a box and ship me off to hell. I wasn’t having any of it, though. I came here to fight. I came here to bust some motherfuckers up.

  “I ain’t letting go of nobody. You want me to let go of him, you even up the fight. You tell your boys to fuck off back home, and we do this, man on man. One on one!”

  The big uncle gave me a smile as if what I was saying was the funniest thing his mopey face had ever heard. He actually turned to his sons and gave them the “what’s this guy like!” look.

  “No, Frank, I’m afraid you came to the wrong bar. It strikes me as stupid that a damn detective wouldn’t know where trouble lurks. You know that you’re not welcome down here, and yet you have the balls, the damn AUDACITY to come down here and show your ugly mug. I’m afraid it’s about to get uglier. I’m gonna break every damn fucking bone in your body, and when I’m done with you, my boys are gonna finish the rest off.”

  I knew what I had to do. I was about ten yards from the entrance, right in the corner of the bar. Everybody had stopped what they were doing, and most people had unintentionally laid out the battleground within a circle of humanity. A fighting area had been sanctioned. People were used to this sort of thing in this bar. Like I said before, I wasn’t a cop when I entered this bar. I was a damn victim. And now I had to fight. So I did.

  I flung Simons back into his seat. He looked up at me all bloody from his nose and thanked me with his eyes. I wasn’t done with him, though. I gave him a smack on his jaw, and he slumped down onto the table head first, cracking his nose once again. The punch and the knockout gave the on-looking revelers a taste of what was to come. They “oooh’d” and “ahhh’ed” a little. Someone hit the jukebox, and some rock ‘n’ roll music jammed out of it.

  That was the cue I was waiting for. I jumped over the table, missing Simons as I did so. I landed feet first on the other side and stood up tall. The four men at the entrance of the bar got themselves ready. I could tell by the way they were standing that they were ready for a tussle. One of them broke away first. Turns out the uncle didn’t want to go straight away. His youngest boy, who was about twenty-three, had run up to me, screaming at the top of his lungs like some warrior on the battlefields of Rome. He had his fists balled up and swung for me. I caught his left and then his right, holding both fists with mine clenched over his. He attempted to overpower me, but I snapped both of his arms forward and swung both hips to the right, turning him inside out. The big bastard landed hard on the ground. He stayed there for a second or two, and I watched as he got back up. He didn’t look like I had hurt him too badly, but I knew that his arms were killing him now. Any punches he landed on me would be significantly less powerful than they would have been before. Naturally I hadn’t taken advantage of him being on the ground a second earlier. I didn’t want to go out like a coward. I wasn’t into kicking people when they were down.

  “Get him, Bryan,” someone shouted.

  With that, he swung for me again. I ducked and landed a hard crack into the right side of his neck. I could feel his neck muscles tense up as I fired another hard shot into his neck. He crumbled onto the ground and started to choke on his own saliva. I waited again for him to get up, but he didn’t. I could see he was done for.

  “Nice try, Bryan. Go to Daddy now,” I said.

  He scurried away from me on all fours up to his dad, who was looking infuriated with the young man.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said, pushing on his next son to go and fight for the family honor.

  The boy who came my way wasn’t much of a boy. I figured he was twenty-eight and weighed about three hundred pounds. He was a big fucker. I could literally feel the ground shake as he
walked.

  The crowd of bar patrons started whistling and jeering. None of them got involved — they just watched in an entertained trance. Some were wolf-whistling, while others were chanting. All of them were making an evening out of it.

  “Fuck him up, Frank!” someone shouted. Finally, my first bit of support. I took that opportunity to go for the big guy’s knees. It was dirty, but I knew I had to do it. I extended my leg and buckled his right knee with it. I heard a snap, and the bastard fell like a sack of dirty farm potatoes. The crowd erupted in a huge show of support. Everyone but the boy’s father.

  “You fucking no-good cheating bastard!” he shouted. “That’s not a clean fight, Frank. I was being fair on you, but now I’m afraid I’ll have to get tough,” he said, signaling his last son, who stood next to him.

  Both he and the last boy came at me at the same time. One on the left and one on the right. I hit the son first with a heavy left, knocking him out pretty fast. The place erupted once again, this time louder. This time the ground did actually shake!

  “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, boy?” he said to me as he grabbed me by the neck. “WELL, YOU AINT!” he shouted, and head-butted me. I fell on my ass and hit my head hard on the floor. The crowd reacted once again, this time with an “ooooh.”

  “Get the fuck up,” the uncle said. “You think you’re gonna get away with sending my nephew to the slammer? You think I don’t know you fitted him up for murder? You fucking rat bastard. You’re gonna be one fucking dead rat bastard, you prick!” he sneered as he wiped his now bloody nose. He must have caught me with it. Amateur head-butt at best.

  I wasn’t in the mood for a fair fight against this asshole. Still on the floor, I swung my feet under him and caught his legs. He flopped onto his back next to me. I quickly turned and lunged into him. I laid down a barrage of lefts and rights to his head and ribs. I could hear the wind sucking out of him. And then I got a clean elbow into his chin, and he went lights out.

  The place erupted, and I got up. I wiped my face, which was now bleeding. I didn’t go away totally untouched from that fight. A few bruises and a black eye. Less than the four men in the bar, but it didn’t really matter. I guess I went to the bar looking for trouble. Maybe trying to decompress after all the shit that had been happening. I felt better afterward, but it still didn’t change the fact that I had ratted on one of my own.

  That was what was really playing on my mind. I had to find out how to stop feeling so down. Turns out beating the shit out of Ricardo’s uncle and three cousins didn’t help me feel any better. It just added to the already empty feeling that settled deep in my stomach.

  Eight

  I left the bar pretty fast. In my experience it was always better to leave a bar after a fight than to stick around and wait for somebody meaner to show up. I got into my Ford Capri and hauled ass all the way home. I even managed to run a few stoplights. Didn’t bother me anyway; I was sober by then. I might have drunk a little, but I knew my limits. Most people would call that reckless, but they don’t know the meaning of the word. Sure, I may do things that get people scratching their heads, but I’ve never done anything that out of whack. Well, that’s what I think, anyway. Some may disagree.

  I was in my apartment by ten past four in the morning. I was asleep ten minutes later. I didn’t even bother to shower. I knew I was a little bloodied from the fight, but that could wait. I had better things to do. Getting some Zs was one of them.

  ***

  I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. It wasn’t like me to sleep half the day away. I had a pounding headache from the fist throwing and the shot downing of the night before. My head felt like cotton wrapped in barbed wire, and my nose was running hot sticky snot as I wiped my mouth dry from my drooling pillow. I got up from my bed, cracked my knuckles, and reached for a cigarette. I lit up and sat on the edge of my bed, smoking for a minute or two. I dropped the ash on the floor and watched as some hit my feet. It was cold once it hit me, so I didn’t flinch in pain. Either I was still out of it or I had gotten lucky, because in my experience as a smoker, ash dropping on one of your limbs always resulted in a nasty pus-ridden burn.

  Luck it was, I guess.

  I got up after I smoked my cigarette and stretched. I was still in my tightie-whities, having gone to sleep in the near buff. I had seen my underwear whiter but wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed by my stained cottons. Obviously, if I was with company, then I would have changed my underwear, but in the mind frame I was in, hygiene wasn’t on my top list of priorities. To be honest, I was far too focused on staying out of jail. Last night’s shenanigans hadn’t helped my confidence about staying out of the clink. In fact, it had made it a tad worse. If I wasn’t going to get arrested for the gun-lending incident, then I was sure I’d have uniform at the door within the hour regarding the fist-throwing incident.

  I cracked my neck and stretched once again. I needed to be worked on by a physical therapist soon. My back had started to really bother me. I wondered for a minute or two if the state would pay for one of those, too, but then dismissed the idea and got into the shower. I had a quick one, just shampoo all over the body, really. I’d run out of shower gel and didn’t have any soap. Either way, I was cleaner than before, so it suited me just fine.

  I got out of the shower into the now steamy bathroom and assaulted myself with the towel. I rubbed myself raw and put on some new clothes, a simple white T-shirt and some grey slacks. I went up to my cabinet and had a look at my face in the mirror, which was fogged over with condensation. I took a swipe at it with my hand and wiped it clean. What I saw was a beaten-up man. My face had a few cuts and bruises that made me look rugged and, if I may say so myself, a little handsome. You know that look, the type of look that dons the face of a hero in an action flick after a hard day’s work of kicking ass, and then the credits run and everybody leaves the theater. Difference was, the credits weren’t running on my action flick. Instead, the marks on my face were a precursor of my not so action-like escapades of the night before. What came afterward was anybody’s guess. I didn’t know how much time I would have left as a free man. I was pretty sure that the night before in the bar I had seriously injured somebody, if not all four of those jerks. Only time would tell. I had bigger things on my mind. I knew those men at the bar wouldn’t be making any police statements, that was for sure. Men like them – men like me; we settle things on our own. Even though I’m a cop, I know when I need to involve the police in my own personal matters, and to be honest, my personal matters are of no matter to my boss or his snooping goons. Right at that very second I bet somebody down at the precinct was looking at some papers on me or going through my sheet, evaluating me, trying to get to grips with the “real Frank McKenzie.”

  There wasn’t much to get to grips with. Just pain and anguish. Hell and fire. Brimstone and burning coals. That was me all over. A man on the edge of melting away into the abyss, only to realize there wasn’t enough left of him to burn at all. I was broken and I knew it, but I decided that maybe it was best if I rode out the storm. I didn’t need to make anybody aware of my state of mind. I didn’t need a fucking shrink poking his nose into my well-being. I was done with it. From that very second, I had made the decision that would shape the rest of my career. I was done with trying to find the answers I was looking for. I was done trying to change me.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed a class of water. On the counter was another pack of smokes. I obliged and lit one up, leaving the cigarette crooked in my mouth as I grabbed my cell and dialed Dr. Martins.

  “Pick up, you prick,” I said, muttering to myself.

  There was a long dial tone, and then finally somebody picked up.

  “Dr. Martins office…please leave a message after the tone,” a voice said.

  “Shit!” I shouted, hanging up and slamming my cell down on the food counter.

  Suddenly there was a rattle at my door. Somebody was knocking on it. I walked over to the door a
nd peeped through the spyhole. I shook my head at the sight I saw and opened it.

  “What the hell are you doing here, man?” I said, staring at Santiago in my doorway.

  “Charming. May I come in?” he said and then smiled. “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  I didn’t bother saying anything in reply. I just let him in and slammed the door behind us. I walked up to my counter and took a stool from underneath it. I offered the stool to San. He obliged, and I knelt against the counter, both hands cupping my face. Supporting the mess that was my obvious depression.

  “You look like shit, dude. What happened?” he said.

  “Went down to Musty Joe’s last night,” I replied.

  Santiago’s face was a picture. He nearly burst out in hysterics. “And why would you do a thing like that?” he said, still creasing his cheeks in subdued laughter.

  “I figured it would be a laugh,” I said.

  Santiago nodded his head and shrugged. “Looks like you had a ball!”

  “I did,” I replied.

  “You got into a fight or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With who?”

  I lit up another smoke and passed the pack to San. He didn’t go for a cigarette straight away, but as I told him what happened, he lit one up and joined me in my self-pity.

  “That was a stupid thing to do, Frank. It’s probably ill-advised to go looking for trouble down there. You seem to be forgetting that you put Ricardo in prison,” San said, dragging hard on his cigarette.

  “I didn’t make him shoot anybody. It’s not my fault,” I replied, feeling a little irritated with San.

  “True, you didn’t make him shoot Larry, but at the end of the day you went looking for trouble down at Musty Joe’s. You found it, and if Shaw finds out you’ll look guilty as sin,” he said.