The One That Got Away

by Joe Clifford

  They are all on me now. When I grab my picture book and stand, I feel like I carry the weight of the world. There are too many of them. As strong as I am, I cannot fight them all. They keep hitting me, swiping jagged glass at my face, punching my ribs and belly. I stumble for the door and feel something sharp enter my side. I pitch bodies off me, crushing them to the ground, stomping hands and feet and faces. I part the seas and make it outside. I climb on my bicycle to peddle for help. I am bleeding from my head and eyes and mouth, from my gut. It is too hard to see in the dark. The streets are wet, winds whipping, sucking all light behind me. I need to get somewhere safe, wait for the storm to pass. I have to tell someone what happened. They have to be punished for what they did. I go back to the only place I can, to the place where we first met, the place where I know I will find her again. I will hide in the tool shed at the football field. I will rest and get better, heal, and then I will go to the police. I will make them understand. I peddle as fast as I can, but the faster I peddle the harder the cold rain stings my eyes and the slower I go, until soon I cannot see anything at all.

  The stands are filling up, the skies bright and blue. I have trimmed the grass, picked trash from the weeds, and swept the lot to get ready for the big game. Cars honk their horns and trucks rev their engines. People cheer. The home team runs onto the field and the sidelines erupt. I look up and see her standing there. High above the rest, beneath the big oak tree. She looks down and smiles. I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. I want to protect her, wrap her in a box, keep her safe forever.

  And I will always remember her this way. Standing on the hill behind the football field, her yellow hair shining like straw in the autumn sun…

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First off I’d like to thank Eric Campbell, Lance Wright, and the Down & Out family for signing me. This is the first of three you’ve agreed to publish. These books are all very special to me. Thank you for giving them a home. I’ll bust my tail for you guys.

  This book required more research than usual. I couldn’t have written it without the help of James Queally and Jason Isolda, who provided their expertise, correcting all the stupid mistakes I made about journalism and geography. Your signed copies (and checks) are in the mail.

  When I was in grad school, Jean Campbell wrote this amazing story about the Second World War and the prejudice of a town against immigrants. And although my novel has nothing to do with war, at least public ones, and takes place far away and much later, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the heavy debt I owe. (Jean, I trust this will come across as homage and not outright theft!)

  Thanks to my lovely wife, Justine. As always you give me the time, patience, and understanding that allows me to write and create worlds. You are the true definition of a better half, and I’d be lost without you.

  A shout out to my boys, Holden and Jackson Kerouac. Now that you can read, Holden, there is no getting around the fact that you will want to read Dad’s books. I just ask that you don’t read Junkie Love until you are much, much older. I love you, boys. You are the reason I am here.

  And much love to my sister, Melissa Greco. There’s not many of us left, kid. We got to stick together. I’m not going anywhere, promise.

  Thanks to Liz Kracht for your faith, editing, and insight. You pushed me to make this book the best it could be.

  A special thanks to Death Wish Coffee, the world’s strongest brew. I had three books out this year. It’s not a coincidence.

  And last thanks to my buddy Tom Pitts. Tom reads all my books, makes sure I don’t fuck up shit like calling rifles shotguns. Mostly, though, I don’t have many brothers left. Tom picks me up when I’m low, and he is always there to remind me why we survived the hobo life; that there is something better waiting for us; and to never, ever give up. Love you, brother.

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  Joe Clifford is the author of several books, including Junkie Love and the Jay Porter thriller series, as well as editor of the anthologies Trouble in the Heartland: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Bruce Springsteen; Just to Watch Them Die: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Johnny Cash, and Hard Sentences, which he co-edited. Joe’s writing can be found at JoeClifford.com.

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  BOOKS BY JOE CLIFFORD

  Choice Cuts

  Junkie Love

  Wake the Undertaker

  The One That Got Away

  The Jay Porter Series

  Lamentation

  December Boys

  Give Up the Dead

  Broken Ground

  Anthology

  Culprits

  As Editor

  Trouble in the Heartland: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Bruce Springsteen

  Just to Watch Them Die: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Johnny Cash

  As Co-Editor

  Hard Sentences: Crime Fiction Inspired by Alcatraz

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from Thieves, a crime novel by Steven Max Russo.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  PROLOGUE

  Miami, Florida

  Six weeks ago

  He came to slowly, as if drifting out of a dense fog. His whole consciousness was focused on his right hand, which throbbed with an intense pain like nothing he had felt before. His throat was parched and swollen, so much so that he couldn’t swallow and had trouble breathing. He was afraid that he might begin to gag and choke. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He knew something bad was happening but couldn’t quite remember what had caused him to be here, his arms and feet immobile, duct-taped to this plastic chair.

  His hand was burning, emanating heat as if it were on fire.

  Someone grabbed hold of his hair and jerked his head violently upward. It wasn’t exceptionally painful, but it was a shock, and he blinked trying to clear the tears out of his eyes so that he could see a little more clearly.

  “Hey, are you awake? Good, I thought we lost you there for a minute.” The voice sounded low and calm, almost kind.

  A face suddenly appeared right in front of him, very close, eye-to-eye, their noses almost touching. Even in his dazed and confused state, he could still smell stale tobacco on the man’s breath. The man’s eyes were bright and sparkled with what could have been amusement, or perhaps a rush from something recently smoked or snorted, his hair slicked down on his head, held firm and tight with some sort of glistening hair gel.

  Paul Diggardy tried to speak, but no words came out, just a dry croaking sound.

  “What? What did you say? Do you know where he is? Where he is right now?” The face in front of him turned quickly to look behind, one hand pointing and then his fingers snapping as he said with some urgency, “Alejandro, agua!”

  The face turned back and looked intensely into Paul Diggardy’s eyes. A second later, a young man appeared carrying a plastic bottle of Poland Spring water. The man with tobacco breath reached behind him, this time without turning his head, and took the bottle. He reached his hand around and pulled Paul’s hair back so that his face was pointed to the ceiling and put the bottle to his lips, then poured the cool water into his mouth. It was heaven on his dry, swollen tongue, and he sucked and slurped the water down trying hard not to gag.

  “There, there, that is enough.” The man stopped the flow of water and let go of his hair.

  “Now, back to business. Do you know where he is? Where he is right now?”

  Paul was not sure what the man was talking about and looked at him blankly. He was trying to focus on what the man was saying.

  The man let go of his hair, took a step back, and smiled warmly. Then he raised his right arm and slapped him hard, openhanded across the face. The blow was totally unexpected and snapped his head to the right. It stung his face without doing any real damage.

  Paul’s
left cheek burned where the open hand had hit, and his eyes immediately teared up again. A sob escaped him from somewhere deep inside, a feeling of almost overwhelming dread and hopelessness engulfed him as he suddenly remembered what had happened to him and why he was sitting in this empty warehouse, taped to this plastic chair.

  “Your friend. The one who broke in where he didn’t belong. Where is he?”

  Paul cried freely and tried to talk to the man with tobacco breath between great heaving sobs. “I told you already,” his voice was low and hoarse, almost unrecognizable to his own ears, “he lives in Bonita Beach. He’s got an apartment, right there near 41 and Bonita Beach Road. I don’t know the address.”

  He took a long, gasping breath.

  “There’s a motel, like a Motel 6, right across the street. Christ, I can’t remember nuthin’. Can I have some more water? Please?”

  The man didn’t say anything for a few seconds, and then slowly he began pouring the remaining water from the Poland Spring bottle over the top of Paul’s head. Paul leaned his head back and opened his mouth, desperately trying to catch some of the water as it dribbled through his hair and down his face.

  When the bottle was empty, the man began again.

  “Your friend. Where is he now?”

  “He ain’t my friend no more, that was a long time ago. We just growed up together is all. I heard he might’a been involved. It was just a rumor, see? I want to help y’all. I told you everything I know. Jesus, my hand, what did you do to my hand? Man, it hurts like hell. What’d you do?”

  “Here, let me show you.”

  The man grabbed Paul’s hair again and gently pulled his head down until his chin nearly touched his chest. His feet were taped to the legs of the chair so he could see the ground between his knees. Paul squeezed his eyes tight, and tears ran down his cheeks. He didn’t want to see what was below him but felt compelled to look. He opened his eyes and saw the man’s polished red cowboy boots. They were beautiful, the supple leather gleaming to a high shine. The man gently moved a small pile of bloody red stubs around with the pointy toe of one boot. Paul could see dirty fingernails on the ends of the stubs.

  A low moan escaped his throat. He wasn’t even aware he was making the sound as he was totally focused on the small bloody pile between his legs.

  “Small pleasures gone.” The man’s voice was soft and soothing, like he was telling a bedtime story. “Things that we take for granted every day—never even think about them. Scratching an itch, the tender caress to a beautiful woman’s breast, picking a particularly annoying booger out of your own nose. What a shame.”

  Paul was crying hard. He could hardly talk, the words coming out in a harsh, quiet whisper.

  “Those are my fingers, man, you motherfuckers cut off my goddamn fingers.”

  The man stood up. He reached into the pocket of his expensive sport coat and pulled out a phone. He hit the speed dial, put the phone to his ear, and waited.

  On the second ring, he heard a voice with a pronounced Hispanic accent answer. “Did he give you what we need?”

  “We will work with him a little more, but I think he has given us all that he has. I will need to go across to the gulf coast, make a surprise visit, see if our friend is at home. We will have more business to conduct when we meet him.”

  There was a minute of silence. Then, “Good. Stop by the office first. And bring me something.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. Then the line went dead.

  “Alejandro,” he said, addressing the young man who had handed him the water bottle, “los otro dedos.” The other fingers.

  “Todos?”

  “Si, todos.”

  He watched the young man walk over to the worktable and pick up the bolt cutter with the long, blond wooden handles now spattered and stained dark with blood. Two other young men who were standing a few feet away eating sandwiches dropped their food into a trash barrel and then made their way over to where Paul Diggardy sat taped to the chair, each grabbing hold of an arm and shoulder to keep him steady.

  The man with the tobacco breath and shiny-red cowboy boots continued walking toward the door, which led out to the parking lot. Paul screamed, but the scream was cut off suddenly as one of the young men cupped a hand roughly over his mouth. The man continued to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the bright sunshine and intense heat of the Miami afternoon.

  He didn’t mind the heat; he had in fact grown up with it in his home country. It was truly a beautiful day. He opened the trunk of his 8-series BMW, reached inside, and pulled a single sheet off a battered roll of paper towels. He then put his right foot up on the bumper and carefully wiped the blood off the toe of his boot. That done, he placed the soiled paper towel in a plastic bag, then grabbed a large glass jar filled with formaldehyde that was held secure in an elastic net attached to the inside of the trunk. Amazing what they come up with for their cars these Germans, he thought absently. He then opened a hidden compartment and extracted the sawed-off Remington 870 pump-action shotgun.

  His boss wanted him to bring something back to the office.

  The jar was only large enough to hold the fingers.

  But that was okay.

  He didn’t expect there was going to be much left of the head anyway.

  ONE

  Mendham, New Jersey

  Friday

  As a rule, Skooley did not like beaners. He grew up in a small town in south-central Florida and though the area where he lived was fully integrated, he was taught early on to stick with his own kind.

  His father worked, but only intermittently, and quite often in the fields right next to the illegals. He always thought of himself as better. Better because he was white. Better because he was born in Florida and a true American.

  But Skooley had always known that his old man was just trailer trash and no better than anybody.

  Still, he found that as a rule, he just didn’t like beaners.

  But Ray seemed all right. He was actually pretty smart, for a Mexican. It was Ray’s idea to steal the bikes from his busboy buddies instead of taking Skooley’s car. It was a long bike ride from the town of Bernardsville, NJ, where they were both staying in a rooming house, to this driveway in Mendham, but he would have had to find a place to put his car, the stolen Toyota Camry, for a few hours unnoticed. He hadn’t even gotten around to stealing a new set of plates, and that could very well have posed a problem. This way, they just rode the bikes with their six-pack of beer in the rusty metal basket right up to the private drive—that actually looked more like a goddamn street than somebody’s driveway—and walked the bikes into the woods. There were plenty of other bicyclists on the road, though most of them were wearing spandex and sleek plastic helmets. Still, nobody paid him and Ray any mind. They laid the bikes down, then sat in the dirt and started drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and watching the house.

  “Hey, Skooley, what you think, man? I don’t see nobody.”

  Skooley turned and looked at Raymundo. Ray was a small, dark man, about twenty-three years old and maybe five-three with a thick build and unruly, bushy black hair that fell over one eye. This caused him to twitch his head every so often to get the hair out of his face, which for some reason just annoyed the hell out of Skooley. He was wearing white painter’s pants that had turned a dull gray, and a dingy New York Mets T-shirt with what looked like a faded yellow mustard stain just to the left of his navel. On his feet was a pristine pair of white Nike sneakers.

  Skooley squinted his eyes and looked at the Mexican.

  “Shit, Ray, take it easy. We only just got here.” He gave him his best friendly smile. “Let’s give it a while. We got beer, the sun is shining, what more can you ask for? Hell, where I come from, days like this are few and far between. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to sit in this here woods and just enjoy the day.”

  “What, you don’t got woods in Florida?” He pronounced it Flor-eeda, like he was
still in Mexico.

  Skooley held his smile as he looked at Ray. “Where you from anyway, Ray?”

  “Bernardsville, man, you know that.”

  “No, I mean before.”

  “Before Bernardsville? I live two years in Newark.”

  “No, no, where in Mexico you from?”

  “I from Guatemala.”

  “They got woods like this in that part of Mexico?”

  Ray looked back at him for a second, puzzled, then shook his head.

  Skooley nodded, then leaned back against a tree with a beer in one hand and his cigarette in the other.

  “There you go, amigo. Where I grew up near Okeechobee, we got mostly just brush, maybe a scrub pine here or there, but there ain’t no hills or mountains and certainly no trees the likes of what we got surrounding us here. I feel like Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. You ever hear of Robin Hood?”

  Ray turned away from Skooley without answering and watched the house.

  They sat in silence for a while and worked on finishing off the six-pack of beer, which was just starting to get warm. It was pleasant in the shade under the trees, and Skooley closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off for just a second.