Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  I didn’t know if Stephon talked to Panella, but I knew Rocky had. Like many others, Panella didn’t take Dude’s employee seriously, and figured Rocky, who looked like a burned out junkie, wouldn’t remember anything he’d seen. I smiled to myself. If there was one thing I’d learned during my years here, it was not to make assumptions about anyone.

  I missed being able to bounce this off Charles. And, in addition to not having Charles, I didn’t have proof.

  I added three question marks after Rocky’s name, skipped two lines, and wrote: Who hired Panella?

  If I was right about Barb being the target, more likely it was someone from Pennsylvania, but something Rocky had said nagged at me. I added two more question marks to the bottom of the page when someone rapped on the back door. Rocky was on the small porch. He was in the same black outfit he had worn in the store, and looked behind him as I opened the door.

  “Got something to tell you, Mr. Landrum. Could I come in?”

  To say I was torn was the understatement of the year, perhaps the decade. I could now ask him what had bothered me about his conversation with Panella, but I could also be facing the man who sent Panella to hit-man hell.

  “Umm, sure.”

  He stepped inside and I took a couple of steps back. I wasn’t ready to offer him a drink or a seat. I also didn’t want him to see how nervous I was so I leaned against the counter. I turned the pad over, and smiled.

  His eyes darted around the room and he focused on the door to the living room. We were standing facing each other when he pushed his coat out of the way and reached behind his back. The next thing I knew, I was staring at the business end of a handgun.

  “Sit.” he said with nonnegotiable force.

  I sat.

  With his other hand, he removed two plastic self-locking cable ties from his pocket, pointed for me to put my hands behind my back, and said not to do anything foolish. I had already done one foolish thing by letting him in and wasn’t about to compound that mistake. He slipped one restraint over my wrists and yanked it tight. It stung as it tore into my wrists. He looped the other tie over the one securing my wrists and weaved it though the rail in the middle of the backrest. He was silent as he went about the task, scary silent.

  “What do you want?” I asked, to get him talking rather than expecting to get a reasonable answer.

  “Wait.” He stepped in front of me, and pulled out a third, and longer, restraint. “Cross your legs and move them against the chair leg.”

  He stared at me until I nodded and set the gun on the counter out of my range and wrapped the tie around my legs and the chair. It had hurt when he tightened the tie around my wrists, but it was a tingle compared to how my ankles felt when he jerked the tie tight around my legs. I grimaced.

  Rocky retrieved the gun and walked from room to room; he appeared to be doing it out of nerves. He came back in the kitchen and looked out the window. He then bolted the back door and stood three feet in front of me.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  Too late, I thought.

  “You’re Dude’s friend. You saved his life a while back and he thinks the world of you. Honest, I don’t want to hurt you.” He glared at me. “If I have to.” He shrugged. “You understand?”

  I nodded.

  He looked at the pistol he held to his side, and said, “I killed him.”

  His calm voiced frightened me more than if he had screamed it.

  I swallowed hard. “Why?”

  “He was going to hurt Dude’s sis. I couldn’t let that happen.” Rocky had come in from the cold and it was cool in the kitchen, but a bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “You know what I mean?”

  He paced, looked around one more time, and grabbed one of the chairs and set it in front of me. He walked to the back door and opened it a crack, looked out, and returned to the chair. I squeezed my wrists apart and tried to twist them enough to restore circulation or loosen them enough to get free. All I achieved was pain.

  “Tell me about it?”

  It seemed an eternity before he spoke.

  “Remember how strange I told you he acted when he came in the shop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing good was hiding up his sleeve, so I remembered him.”

  “Good.”

  Rocky stared at my bound feet. “I was headed to catch a wave before work that horrible morning. My apartment—not much more than a closet—is in that old building on Huron. I was taking a shortcut to the surf shop where I keep my board. It was dark—dark and foggy. Wow, was it ever so foggy. I saw nothing more than a shadow of someone fiddling with the lock on the bookstore door. I was ten feet away before I got a good look at him. That stopped me in my tracks, I can tell you.” He shook his head as he relived the moment. “He must have heard me because he turned. I stopped and said, ‘Shit man, I’m only walking by.’”

  Rocky paused.

  “What happened?”

  “My eyes were adjusted to the dark and I saw it was the dude who’d been hiding from Barb in the store. I took a step back and he pulled a gun out of his jacket. Aikona. She’s not going to get hurt; not if I can help it.”

  Thanks to my Dude-speak translator, Charles, I had learned aikona meant not going to happen.

  Rocky hesitated and looked at the gun. “I had this and pulled it out. The guy raised his arm like he pointed his gun at people all the time. Swear to God, he was going to shoot me. All I was doing was walking down the alley.” He sighed. “I don’t know how I was quicker than him. I didn’t aim. I pointed my gun in his direction and yanked the trigger.”

  The sweat was now running down his face. His gun hand was shaking, and I thought he was going to break into tears. I held my breath.

  “He flopped back like I’d smacked him with my board. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around and no one came running so I went over to him. He wasn’t moving. And … and, there was a hole right in the middle of his head. He was deader than a week-old beached grouper.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I wanted to know his name. Don’t know why, but I did. Sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anybody. He was on his back, and his coat was open. I wasn’t about to roll him over. Then I saw two of those money bags like Dude has when he gets cash from the bank. They were sticking out the inside pockets of his coat. Puffed him out so much it looked like he had on a bulletproof vest. Crap Landrum, they held stacks of cash, hundred-dollar bills, thirty-seven thousand bucks—more money than I’d ever seen.”

  “You took it?”

  Rocky wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. “He didn’t need it. Don’t get me wrong, Dude treats me good. That’s more money than I take home in a year and a half. Yeah, I took it.”

  My hands were tingling, and my legs ached from the awkward position they were in.

  “It was self-defense, Rocky. He was trying to kill you. Tell you what, cut these ties off and I’ll forget about what’s happened. We can call the police. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  He stood and waved his gun around the room. “Don’t you think I’ve pondered that? It’s about all I’ve been thinking about since that morning.”

  “Now’d be a good time to do it,” I hoped it made more sense to him than it did to me.

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I know how people look at me? I’m that worthless surfer at the surf shop who scares off customers. If I went to the cops, I’d be in jail before sunset, and wouldn’t get out while geezers like you are still alive.”

  “Rocky, the police will understand, and—”

  “Enough. There’s more. Before I moved here, I’d spent some years locked up. I was deep in drugs—using, not selling. One night in Louisiana I was high and ran over an old dude; never saw him in the street. Convicted of vehicular homicide; spent seven years behind bars. Deserved every minute of it. I’d still be there if I didn’t get clean—as if I had a choice in jail. I traversed the st
raight and narrow. They called me a model prisoner, can you believe that? Even got some college credits while I was l locked up. They let me out before my time was up.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah. Moved here and Dude hired me without asking anything about my past. Best thing that’s ever happened to me. I owe that man my life.”

  “The police will—”

  “The police won’t ignore my past like Dude did. They’ll say I killed before and now killed that dude in the alley to rob him. If I was on the jury, I’d convict my ass and ship me away forever.” He pointed the gun at my feet. “That’s why you’re hogtied. I want you to know what happened. You’re buds with the cops and’ll tell them my side. They won’t believe what you tell them I said. You’ll also tell Dude and he’ll tell Stephon. They’ll believer me.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll go with you to the police. Detective Adair and Chief LaMond are good at what they do. They’ll give you a fair shake. If you run, it’ll look like you’re guilty and they’ll catch you.”

  “Good try. No way. Besides, I figure I can get mighty far away from here on the dead guy’s cash. You’re an old fart, so I figure it’ll take you a while to get out of that.” He pointed to my legs. “You’ll call the cops and tell them what happened, and none of you’ll have any idea where I went.”

  He started to the door and turned back to me. “Sorry for tying you up.”

  It struck me he wasn’t going to kill me. “Can I ask you one thing?”

  He grinned. “You ain’t in a position to ask much. To show you I’m not as bad as you think, go for it.”

  “When we were talking the other day and you were telling me about your conversation with Panella, didn’t you say something about him having to leave to meet someone at his house?”

  He shook his head. “That’s one stupid-ass question to ask while you’re sitting there like that.”

  I shrugged, or as much of a shrug as I could muster with my hands bound behind my back. “It’s important.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he said. He’d looked at his watch like he was late.”

  “And you’re sure he said he had to meet at someone’s house, not hotel room, in a car, or anywhere else?”

  “How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Thanks. Good luck.”

  He closed the back door on his way out. I realized he wasn’t the only person with perspiration running down the face.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I was alive, thank God and I suppose, thank Rocky. Now what? I was strapped to a chair in the middle of the kitchen. I couldn’t use my hands or legs. The phone was in the other room and even if I could get to it, I doubted I was dexterous enough to nose dial. Frustration stuck me from all directions, yet again, I was alive, and I wouldn’t have put money on my chances a few minutes ago.

  I could scoot the chair a few feet. What would that accomplish? In movies, when the good guy’s tied to a chair, he’d tip it over and manage to twist himself like a pretzel and miraculously escape the bonds. In the real world, I pictured myself tipping the chair over, smacking the floor, cracking my skull, and don’t even think about the pretzel thing. I needed to come up with Plan B, Lord knows, I had time.

  I could think of many things I couldn’t do, but the one thing I could do was to scoot the chair across the floor. To what end? The steak knives Bob had given me were in the top drawer by the sink. They had remained in the drawer unused since Bob had given them to me. Unused, unless I count the one that was attached the note to my pillow. I could use my teeth to open the drawer pull; get my mouth around the handle of one of the knives. Then what? A knife in mouth is better than two where? Enough foolishness, focus. What I was certain of was there was no hope while parked in the center of the room.

  I inched the chair to the counter, careful not to tip over. Now what? I pulled the drawer open enough to get part of my head in and put my teeth around the plastic handle of one of the knives. My mouth slipped and I was afraid I’d slit my tongue. That would have been a poor introduction of the never-used blade to its intended use. On the second try, I got the knife out without drawing blood. I leaned up and dropped the knife on the edge of the counter. Well done, but worthless. Even if I got the chair turned around, the knife was still a foot and a half higher than I could reach. Think, Chris, think. I could use my Uri Geller-psychic powers and will the knife to float through the air and land in my hands so I could cut the binding. Stop it. Get serious.

  I stared at the drawers and realized the next to bottom drawer opened at hand level. If I could get my knee close enough, I might be able to nudge it open.

  I inched the chair closer to the counter, leaned as far as I could, and moved my knee to the side of the drawer. The tie around my ankles was digging into my skin and it stung more when I tried to get leverage to pull the drawer open. I failed.

  I caught my breath and tried again. No better luck. I leaned back in the chair to conjure up another solution. None appeared. I had to keep trying.

  The third time was more painful but it was a charm. The drawer opened an inch. I hesitated to compose myself, and repeated the action until the drawer was open enough to have a chance to catch the knife. The knife was on the counter directly above the drawer. All I had to do was reach it with my mouth and slide it off the edge of the counter, watch it land in the open drawer, turn the chair around, grab the knife without cutting a finger off, and maneuver it around to cut the tie. Nothing to it. Yeah, right.

  Problem. With the drawer open, I couldn’t get to the knife without performing a circus act of balancing the chair on two legs while leaning over the counter to reach Bob’s gift. If the chair slipped, I’d be screwed. If I slid the knife too quickly, it’d miss the drawer and land on the floor and out of reach.

  Careful, Chris, I told myself as I leaned the chair to one side. It began slipping, and I quickly leaned the other direction to set it back on all four legs. I took a deep breath and inched nearer to the open drawer. Time to try again. My chin touched the knife and I nudged it closer to the edge. I said a silent prayer, and gave it another push. The knife not only landed in the drawer, its handle faced me. Proof that prayer, even a strange one about knocking a knife off a counter, worked. It also could have been pure, dumb luck. Either way, I’d take it.

  After rejoicing over my knife-dropping act, I scooted the chair to the front of the drawer, turned it around, and reached in the drawer and put my tingling hand around the knife’s handle. A minute later, I had cut through the tie. My hands were free. To think, Charles had said I’d never use the knives.

  I rubbed my hands to restore circulation, and bent over and cut the strap that held my feet. I stood and almost fell when my legs gave way. I sat—fell—back down, caught my breath, and looked at the clock. I figured my ordeal had lasted a week or so. It had been less than an hour. I gave my legs a couple more minutes to recuperate and stumbled to the bedroom and grabbed the phone.

  I tapped 9, another 9, then moved my finger off the keyboard. Rocky was rude, obnoxious, and guilty of killing Panella—in self-defense. He had stolen close to forty thousand dollars off the corpse, not to mention, binding me to a chair. Still, he’d saved Barb’s life, had been devoted to Dude, and had taken a risk by telling me what had happened. He’s had an hour to escape, but I figured if he had another hour, his chances of getting caught would drastically decrease. I owed it to Dude and Barb to give him the extra time. I grabbed a Diet Pepsi, moved to my recliner, and thought how lucky I was to be alive.

  “Lordy, lordy, what now, Mr. Landrum?” Officer Bishop said, as I greeted her at the door.

  I rubbed my wrists and welcomed the first, and becoming way too familiar, first responder.

  “Good afternoon, come in please,” I said, trying to allay any fear there was any immediate danger.

  She stepped past me and looked around the living room. “Anyone else here?”

  I shook my head. “Just us, Officer Bishop.”

 
; “Might as well go with Trula. I’m seeing you more than I’m seeing my husband. What’s up?”

  I began telling her about being tied up when the door flung open and Chief LaMond stormed in.

  She did the same police gaze around the living room Officer Bishop had performed. “You okay?”

  “Fine, now.”

  The chief glanced at Bishop and down at the red welts on my wrists. “Holy recipient of bad luck, do I need to post Warning! Hazardous to your Health signs in your yard?”

  “It might not be a bad idea.”

  “Okay,” the chief said, “What now?”

  Officer Bishop interjected, “We were getting to that.”

  Cindy said, “Go ahead, Chris. I’m sure this will be a doozy.”

  I waved for them to follow me to the kitchen and offered them a chair.

  “Would you like me to start with having a gun pointed at me, being tied up, escaping using my extraordinary creative skills, or learning who killed Lawrence Panella?”

  Cindy looked at Trula. “You did hear me say it’d be a doozy, didn’t you?”

  Bishop nodded at her boss and turned to me. “Who killed Panella?”

  I was hurt she didn’t want to hear about my trials and tribulations. I “entertained” the ladies by sharing everything that had happened, up to, but not including, giving Rocky the extra hour to get the hell out of Dodge, or Folly Beach.

  Bishop reached for her notebook. “What does Rocky drive?”

  “No idea. Don’t know if he has a car?”

  “What’s his last name?” she asked.

  I was embarrassed to say I didn’t know.

  “Did he say anything to indicate where he was going?” the chief asked.

  “No.”

  Cindy turned to her officer. “Call Jim Sloan and get Rocky’s name, address, and what he drives.”