The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  “You need a minute, homie? You need a sec to collect yourself?” They all laughed. “I give you a minute, huh, how zat?”

  The three of them stepped back. I rolled over and looked up at them and they grinned down at me. I started to push myself up off the pavement and one of them kicked my arm out from under me and I went down again.

  “Where you think you’re going, punk-ass? You stay right there, get yourself together.”

  I started laughing.

  Weakly at first, because my whole body was wracked with pain, but then the laughter started getting stronger because, Jesus, this was all too much, these half-ass gangsters who’d seen too many movies and were so tough only because there were three of them and one of me. And really, they didn’t stand a chance because I could feel the pain going away and the slight buzz at the back of my head. I could feel the glow building in my fingertips.

  Doo-rag Slim said, “What you laughing about, you punk-ass bitch?” and moved to kick me again. I grabbed his foot inches from my head and twisted it and he went down on his back.

  The other two moved quickly, but in a heartbeat I was on my feet and fighting. The light glowed in my hands as I jabbed at the nose of the nearest guy, and as I felt bone crack under my knuckles the light seemed to spread over his face, splatter like gold blood and arc away.

  The other gangster performed a fairly impressive kung fu move, jumping back on one foot and kicking out sharply with his other. His heel caught me in the upper chest and I staggered back a few feet but stayed up. It looked good, but didn’t hurt much. I guessed he didn’t really know martial arts but saw the trick in a movie and practiced it on his own in the privacy of his bedroom.

  I grinned at him, took three steps forward, snatched his shirt collar and slammed my forehead into his nose.

  I heard a click behind me, the sound of a gun hammer being drawn back, and turned to see the last of them, Slim, pointing a 9 mm Beretta at my belly. He looked scared and I knew he was going to shoot, to hell with where Tassie was.

  One step toward him, and he did it, he pulled the trigger. I felt the sudden fire pierce my stomach, felt the little slug of metal, like a steel wasp burrow into my gut and lodge against my spine.

  It didn’t slow me down. Snarling, I grabbed the gun and his hand, and the golden light flared like a beacon and the flesh of his fingers sizzled. He screamed. I gripped him tighter, feeling his hand fuse into the metal of the gun.

  He dropped to his knees, his screams getting weaker and weaker, and then the only thing holding him up was me. He passed out.

  I let him go and he crumpled to the pavement. I glanced around for the other two. They were gone, ran off.

  My shirt was bloody, but the flesh underneath had already begun scabbing over. Even the scabs would be gone in an hour or so. The broken nose, too, had already repaired itself, leaving no trace save for the drying blood on my face.

  I pulled off my jacket and shirt, used the shirt to wipe away the blood, and then tossed it away. Slim wore a black t-shirt; I pulled it off over his head and put it on. It fit okay, and didn’t smell any worse than mine had. I put my jacket back on, and the Bible in the inside pocket thumped against my chest.

  Then it finally occurred to me that I was in the middle of a public parking lot on a bright sunny Sunday morning. I looked around warily, expecting to see crowds of witnesses everywhere. But there was no one. The parking lot empty, blocked off from the view of the rest of the street by the bar.

  Lucky bastard, but my luck wouldn’t hold out forever. Time had run out here, for sure, and it was time to go, to say goodbye to Cuba Landing. Get my money from Ishy, fetch Tassie, and get the hell out of Dodge, as they say.

  Now, if I could only remember where I’d parked that goddamned Rover.

  “Mr. Mayor isn’t here, sir,” the servant said. “I believe he’s gone to find you.”

  “Where?”

  “Your current place of residence, Mr. Wesley.” A slight smirk on his face, very improper for a servant. “The Garrity home, I assume?”

  Great, I thought. Even the hired help knew about me and Elise these days.

  I climbed back in the Rover—which, as it turned out, I’d left on the other side of Maxwell Park earlier—and drove another mile up Swan Road to the Garrity house.

  Ishy’s car, a sporty black Porsche, was parked in front. I pulled up behind it and trotted up to the front door. He was just coming out.

  “Charlie,” he said, beaming. “I just got the word from Forrey. Nice work, old man.”

  His right hand was back in his pocket, where it belonged. A band-aid on his forehead, his lower lip slightly swollen and his left eye purple. Other than that, he looked one hundred percent.

  “Got the hand back under control?”

  His grin disappeared. “Charlie, I swear to God, if you—”

  “We’re done, Ishy,” I said. “I’m leaving Cuba Landing. We’re done.”

  “I reckon we are.” The thought of my leaving his town seemed to cheer him. He said, “S’gonna be a damn shame to see you go. We ain’t had this much excitement here since . . . well, since I don’t know when. It’ll be downright quiet without you around.”

  I said, “But my leaving depends on our bargain.”

  “Right, right,” he said. “Fifty K, right? It’s Sunday, you know, bank’s closed. But I can deposit a check in your account first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Or you can just give me the check, right now.”

  He looked at me. “What, right this second? Just hand it over to you?”

  “Ishy—”

  He held up his left hand. “Take it easy, old boy, don’t get all worked up. I’m not gonna cheat you. It’s just that fifty thousand bucks takes a bit of maneuvering, you understand. I gotta juggle some books, bring in a little cash from here, a little cash from there. It’s not like I have that kinda money just lying around, you know.”

  The look on my face must have spoken volumes, because he immediately added, “Look, how ’bout this. I can write you a check, right now, for ten thousand dollars. Something for you to have, a gesture of good faith. And then, tomorrow, I’ll—”

  “Cash, Ishy. Give me all the cash you have, right now, and we’ll forget the rest.”

  He frowned. “Forget the rest? What do you mean?”

  “Just what I say. Give me all the cash you have, and I’ll leave Cuba Landing today and you’ll never see me again.”

  He scratched his head. “Forget the . . . you mean you’d willingly part with all that money, just for a little spending loot? Are you out of your mind, boy?”

  “It’s more than spending loot, Ishy. Don’t try to screw with me. I know you have several thousand bucks on you, at least.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Don’t even try it. It’s no big secret, your insistence on carrying around loads of cash. I’m surprised no one’s tried to rob you yet.”

  He shook his head and laughed, mystified, then shrugged. “Whatever you say, Charlie. You wanna throw away money, what business is it of mine?”

  He pulled out his wallet, opened it up, and yanked out several large bills. “Here ya go, Charlie. That’s what, five thousand dollars, cash money. It ain’t fifty grand, but it still looks pretty sweet in person, don’t it?”

  He held the bills out to me but I wasn’t biting. I said, “Try again, Ishy.”

  “Boy, what do I have to—”

  “We’re going to need a lot more than that. I said all your cash. If I have to say it again, it won’t be your right hand that beats you senseless.”

  He started to protest, but thought better of it. Shrugging, he said, “Okay, Charlie. You win.”

  “We both win, Ishy. You’re getting off easy.”

  “I reckon so.” He went to the Porsche, opened the door, and pulled out his briefcase. Setting it on the hood, he snapped it open with his good left hand, dug under some papers and came up with a bundled stack of hundreds. He said, “There. Tha
t’s another seven thousand dollars, damnit. It’s all yours. And don’t worry about all that documentation I have up the house. I’ll burn it all today.”

  “Do whatever you want with it, I don’t care.” I shoved the money in my pocket. It made a reassuring bulge. I shook my head. “Why in God’s name do you carry around this kind of money anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Call it a security blanket.”

  I laughed. “Security blanket. I bet you feel very fucking secure right about now.”

  “I will, Charlie. I’ll feel very secure, once you leave Cuba Landing. That’s money well spent.”

  “Healthy attitude, Mr. Mayor,” I said, then smiled at him. “You have a good Sunday. With any luck, we won’t be seeing each other again.”

  He hurried around to the driver’s side of the Porsche, climbed in, started up the engine. He glanced at me once, then pulled out and drove away.

  So long, Mr. Mayor.

  I walked up the porch, went in the house.

  • • •

  I didn’t really want to see Elise. Coward, maybe. Bastard, probably. But it seemed pretty clear to me that we were done, that there was nothing left of what we had to salvage. And really, what did we have to begin with? We fucked each other for a while, we came up with an ugly little scheme together, we carried it out. And for what?

  And maybe we both pretended we were in love, too. She almost said it once, but hell . . . it was an emotional moment. I almost felt it myself. Lies.

  But here I stood, in front of the big oak doors of the Garrity home, about to go inside and say whatever needed to be said and listen to whatever needed to be listened to. Not out of a sense of duty, nothing that chivalrous. Maybe a sense of closure, as the pop pysch freaks like to say?

  Whatever. I walked in and shut the door behind me and stood for a moment in the cool beige foyer with its carved wood staircase leading up and the hallway to the kitchen at the far end. Weird to think, I sort of lived here. Me, Charlie Wesley, screwed-up loser who never did a decent thing in his life, living in a goddamn mansion with a beautiful woman and servants and the whole nine yards.

  No justice in this world, the wise men say, only hopes for justice in the next. . . .

  She waited in the library, lights off and the daylight streaming through the open windows casting shadows. Sitting on the sofa, she barely glanced at me when I came in. In a strange voice, she said, “You saw Ishy on the way in?”

  “Yes.”

  “He came by looking for you. Wanted to offer his congratulations.”

  I nodded. The bar at the far end of the library beckoned, but Elise didn’t have a drink and I realized that, for once, I really didn’t want one either.

  “He said something about a murder yesterday,” she said.

  “What?”

  “A murder, in town. They found a body in a dumpster. Behind that bookstore you like so much. He asked me if I reckoned you knew anything about it.”

  “Oh. He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Know anything about it?”

  I said, “No,” and she laughed without humor, still not looking at me, and said, “You’re a liar,” and we let a silence build between us for a minute.

  Then she said, “You left last night.”

  I nodded again and she finally looked at me, expecting more of an answer. Something like hatred burned in her eyes. Her mouth twisted angrily and she looked ready to say something else but cut it off and looked away from me again.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” she said.

  “Why did you do it, Elise?” I said. “What really motivated you to do it?”

  “I did it for you. Isn’t that a riot? I did it for you, so that you could be free to stay with me or run away with me or whatever we wanted to do.” Her voice dropped an octave, and her next words were almost to herself. “Stupid. So goddamn stupid.”

  “You really thought we could do this, Elise? You really thought we could do this horrible thing and then go on to a normal life together?”

  “Shut up, Charlie.”

  “Why did you really do it?”

  “I told you.”

  “No. Why did you really do it?”

  She stood up suddenly and screamed at me, “Shut up, Charlie!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, alright? I don’t know! You monster!”

  She lunged at me, fury twisting her features, and slapped me across the face. Then she did it again and again, just like that night in front of the church when her mother died except this time it was someone else’s death, it was hers and mine.

  I let her hit me until my lip started bleeding, then grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides and snarled, “Stop it.” She struggled against me for a moment, then gave up and jerked herself away.

  She looked at the floor and said, “I don’t know why I did it. Do you know why you let me?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “That’s crazy, isn’t it? We don’t even know what motivated us. Neither of us do. What are we, Charlie? What kind of monsters are we?”

  “It doesn’t help to think about it too much.”

  She laughed humorlessly. “Nice one. What, is that from the Charlie Wesley book of excuses? The guide to being a conscienceless prick? Just don’t think about it, that’ll make everything better.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Looking at me again, she said, “Did you ever even love me, Charlie? Even for a minute?”

  I said, “I don’t know, Elise.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think you did. And I don’t think I ever really loved you. You were a mistake, right from the beginning, and I knew that. But that’s what I’ve always done, all my life, walk deliberately into mistakes.”

  And then I did it, I just blurted it out, the question that had been with me for so long. “Like Perrin?” I said. “Was he a mistake?”

  She glanced at me sharply, stunned. “How . . .” she said. “You . . .”

  “Your son Perrin,” I said. “Was he a mistake, Elise?”

  Her shock gave way slowly to quiet rage and I watched her as her fists clenched and tremors wracked her body. She whispered, “I hate you.”

  “Elise, I don’t care that you have a son. That means nothing. I only wonder why you never told me, and why he’s living with China’s family.”

  “I hate you,” she said again.

  “Who is Perrin’s father?”

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  “Why is he staying with China?”

  “None of your goddamn business, I told you. How dare you? How dare you judge me?”

  “I’m not judging you, I said that already. I just want to know the truth, that’s all. Tell me the truth and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “You don’t get to set the conditions,” she spat. “Perrin is none of your business, you bastard. Especially now.”

  “Who is the boy’s father? Is it Ishy?”

  “Ishy! Are you out of your mind?”

  “Who, then? Forrey? Oldfield?”

  “Get out.”

  “Is it someone I don’t even know, Elise?”

  “I said, get out!”

  “Is it the Reverend? Was he here, all those years ago?”

  “No!” she screamed. “You want to know so bad, Charlie? You want to know who Perrin’s father is? Fine, I’ll tell you.”

  Her next words reminded me that I wasn’t entirely beyond being shocked into silence.

  “It’s Jathed!” she said. “You hear me? Perrin’s father is Jathed!”

  She stared at me furiously for a moment, her gold-blonde hair shining like a halo and her green eyes sparkling and her teeth clenched and I was devastated by the awful beauty of her, this perfect creature, this vessel of pain that I had known so intimately.

  She said, “You can see your own way out.” She shouldered past me and stormed out of the library. I heard her fo
otsteps on the stairs in the hall above me, heard a door slam.

  And then silence.

  I went to the window and leaned on the sill. My head felt heavy. I couldn’t breathe without thinking about breathing.

  This town. Jesus Christ, but this town. . . . It needed to die.

  “I believe Miss Garrity instructed you to leave, Mr. Wesley.”

  I looked up, saw Louis standing there in the doorway to the library. His thin face drawn, his long fingers clenched into fists. Stella hovered behind him, looking scared and nervous.

  “You,” I said. “Did you know about this?”

  “Don’t make me ask you again, Mr. Wesley.”

  “You gonna kick me out, Louis? Think you can do that?”

  His adam’s apple bobbed and he blinked, but to his credit he stood up straighter and spoke with more authority. “I will do what I must, Mr. Wesley.”

  From behind him, Stella said, “He has a gun. And . . . and he’ll use it.”

  Louis snapped, “Be quiet, Stella.”

  I studied them both for a moment, sort of admiring the bravery in a vague way. I could snap Louis’s neck in a heartbeat, he knew it, but hey, he had a job to do, right? Ever-faithful manservant, sworn to the Garrity family, sworn to do anything needed to protect them, to guard the family name. He’d even shoot me, if he had to.

  I let the image wash over me, the image of bullets pounding into me, Louis holding the smoking gun in his shaking hands, and blood sprouting like flowers on my chest. The Bible in my jacket pocket wouldn’t offer much protection, would it? The bullets would rip through it pretty easily. Hell, it already had a hole all the way through. . . .

  All the way through.

  Sonofabitch.

  Some little-used synapse sparked in my brain, one of those connections that I’d heard smart people make.

  “Please, Mr. Wesley,” Louis said. “Let’s avoid any more . . . unpleasantness.”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.

  As soon as I came out the front door, I could see a slim, black figure at the end of the driveway. I walked down to meet him. He was leaning against the wrought iron gate but stood straight when he saw me approaching.

  “Heya, Mr. Wesley.”

  “Heya, China Bones. Why don’t you call me Charlie, okay?”