Dark Passages Box Set

by Dan Alatorre

  There were lots of options. Accidental drowning while out fishing on our boat, accidental electrocution while bathing and watching Netflix on the tub-side TV, fall down the steps while drunk and break her neck—but if I’d learned anything from watching crime shows on TV, it’s that these type of “accidents” always seem to come back to the perpetrator. And what’s the point of that?

  In the end, all the crime show morons would have been better off getting divorced. Lack of foresight on their part, I suppose, and that’s what kept me from moving forward all these years. Nearly ten years now, I suppose, I’ve wanted out from under the crag—practically the entire time we’ve been married. But divorce? Not an option. Not for me.

  It’s against my religion, for one thing. Now, you may be thinking, wait a minute. Divorce isn’t okay in your religion, but murder is? Well, no, but if you’re going to commit a sin and be forgiven, why have the irritating party around to still give you grief?

  Ha. Grief. Like at a funeral? If only.

  Anyway, the murderers on TV should have gotten divorced, and I suppose they weren’t all morons—so why didn’t they get divorced?

  Greed.

  Usually there was a side chick or a back door man—an illicit lover on the side—and somehow offing the spouse played better in the pair’s minds than hiring lawyers and parting with half of their marital assets. Often that was a considerable amount of cash, or a lucrative business. One time it was a grandmother who simply didn’t like the amount of time she got to spend with her little granddaughter, so the old woman decided it was her son’s wife mucking up everything, and the daughter-in-law had to go. Who knew grandmas were so vindictive? I suppose the son was the type who, in his mother’s eyes, never did anything wrong—which probably irritated the wife to no end, because that meant mother-in-law would always be sticking her nose in and blaming the wife for anything amiss, and when it comes to kids, there’s no small amount of advice people are willing to give you about how you should raise them. Whether or not they even have kids, people will tell you how to raise yours.

  But anyway, that’s where I got the idea of how to do it. See, on the TV show, the grandma knew a hit man from way back when. Or she thought she knew one; turns out she spoke to an undercover cop and that’s what did her in. They had videos of her talking about how she wanted the job done. Hours of it. That’s a tough case for a defense attorney to sell to a jury.

  Grandma, on video: “I want the bitch dead, shot twice in her fat face! Can you do that? How much will that cost me?”

  Defense lawyer: “See, your honor, she was really talking about a cake recipe.”

  Yeah. Tough sell.

  But where grandma went wrong was, she thought she knew a guy.

  I actually knew a guy.

  Well, to be completely accurate, I knew a lady who knew a guy.

  Where we used to live, back when me and the crag were happy newlyweds—so, pre-crag—they had block parties all the time. This was around 2009, before we had our son Avery, when we lived in Pittsburgh.

  I hated Pittsburgh, by the way. Smells like a backed-up river all the time. A light mix of dead fish with a dose of clogged toilet. I heard the suicide rate there is highest per capital in the world. If it’s not, it should be.

  We lived in Bloomfield, on a nice little street that only smelled occasionally, when the wind shifted. Little two-story brick houses that all looked a lot alike, but that meant the people inside were a lot alike, too, and in this part of the world they celebrated fourth of July by putting saw horses at each end of the street and having a party right out on the road. Everybody wheeled their grills down to the street and cooked right on the asphalt, and everybody had a cooler. You went from grill to grill, cooler to cooler, meeting and talking like an adult trick or treat. And it wasn’t just the adults. The kids all ran around and played just like they’d done in Bloomfield for decades. Nighttime would come, a few fireworks would get shot off, and then the sparklers would come out. Kids running around with sulfur burning at 1,000 degrees, right on the end of their fingertips. What could possibly go wrong? About the same type of thing that happens when a drunken Pittsburger tries to use a cigar stub to set off parade rockets. But hey, hospitals need business, too.

  In winter, the neighborhood kids extrapolated the sawhorse idea on snow days and, after the adults went to work, blocked the road so they could ride their sleds down the hilly streets until the snowplow showed up. Since one of the city snowplow guys lived two blocks over from us, that was usually about an hour before bedtime.

  Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Labor Day—all were celebrated the same way: block party.

  It was at one of these events that the crag and I met Ginnie, a good-looking red headed lady with a husband who traveled a lot. They had a motorcycle and lived one street over from ours (the other way from the snowplow guy), but everybody went to everybody’s block parties. After a few too many gin and tonics one Cinco De Mayo, Ginnie let loose to me that her husband Lou was actually a hit man for the mafia. Chopper, his nickname was. I guess because he liked motorcycles. Lou traveled to do “jobs” out of state, and apparently business was good. He was gone a lot—which meant Ginnie was lonely a lot, but let’s face it, if a pretty woman tells you she’d like to show you the wallpaper in her bedroom while her hit man husband’s out of town, you remember that’s the day you need to mow the lawn.

  She eventually said he did other stuff, too, like hijack trucks and hawk stolen cigarettes, but his main thing was taking care of “problems” for his boss. His cover story was, he was in the insurance business. Which, really, I guess he was.

  I never met Lou, and I basically stayed away from Ginnie after that—without being offensive, of course, because who needs a problem with a lady whose husband kills people for a living? And then a year later I got a promotion at work and we moved.

  To Jacksonville, Florida. Another big city with a smelly river.

  Anyway, we had a kid—Avery, remember?—and then after a few years in Jacksonville I took a transfer to Ft. Lauderdale—just as smelly, but from the canals, not a river. They dug waterways behind all the houses so people near the beach could have access to the ocean for their boats. That’s a great plan until there’s a hurricane and everyone’s first floor floods when the storm surge pushes ten feet of extra water into the canals. Avery liked being able to float his toy boats across the living room, but having to haul the TV onto the kitchen table to keep it out of the water wasn’t as much fun for me.

  It was around then that I concluded that I didn’t like being married to the crag anymore. I suppose I had suspected for a while; people grow apart. Lots of people we knew got divorced. But I was working lots of hours at the office and the crag was always out attending her book club and her gardening club, with all its stupid brochures, and then her wine club—basically, I saw the people I worked with a lot more than I saw my wife, and they were more fun, too. Especially the folks in sales. They were always going out for drinks or dinners—a real wild crowd. Especially Marcie, the new lady they assigned to my accounts. It’s rare that an account manager and salesperson would hit it off, but we did.

  Marcie was great. Smart, pretty, ambitious. She divorced her husband the prior year and really seemed to be living a fun life. That wasn’t hard to do in Ft. Lauderdale, with Miami’s clubs and restaurants less than an hour away. More and more client meetings got scheduled in Miami, which meant I had to travel there more, and as the sales rep, so did Marcie. We’d wine and dine the clients . . . and then, well, after a few drinks, you can’t drive home, so I’d get a hotel room and stay over. So would Marcie. The company didn’t mind, so why not? We all did it. The sales reps and the account managers, and sometimes the bosses.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and before you get carried away, let me just tell you: eh . . . you’re right. Marcie and I hooked up. I felt bad about it, but—okay, no I didn’t. Like I said, people grow apart, and that’s what happened to the crag and me. Whereas, Ma
rcie understood me, and we spent so much time together, it seemed natural for us to be together. There was only one problem. If I divorced my wife, I’d have to cut a check for nearly half a million dollars, plus possibly pay alimony for who knows how long. She worked and she made decent money, but the idea of paying her to stay away from me was irritating—almost as irritating as the plants from her gardening club that were always showing up and dying all over the yard. If there was ever a person with a brown thumb, the crag was it. Her book club was no better, a bunch of old bitties haggling about whether the pilot in The English Patient found the nurse again—really, who cares? Watch the movie and in two hours you’ll find out.

  It was club after club after club, and they were all irritating. Well, except the wine club. That one was okay.

  So I got the idea that the crag had to go. It was Marcie’s idea, actually. We were watching that crime show with the grandma while relaxing in the hotel hot tub with a couple of margaritas, when it came to her. On the show, the old woman’s plan was perfect, except for when she hired the undercover cop she thought was the hit man. Aside from that, there were no links to her as the killer.

  And that’s when I remembered.

  I knew a hit man!

  Well, again, I knew his wife, but she’d remember me. She always seemed to like me. I’m guessing she didn’t ask all the guys in the neighborhood to help her trim her begonias. (Although if she did, it would explain why there were always houses for sale around Bloomfield.) It would be easy to track Ginnie down; her phone number probably hadn’t been changed. Even if it had, with social media, a decent web search would probably find her. I could pay her a courtesy call the next time I was in Pittsburgh, which happened a few times a year, and get it all set up. No phone calls to trace, no strange meetings. Easy-peasy.

  And just like that, my shrewd sales rep found she had a sales meeting in Pittsburgh the following week—one that would, due to its difficulty, require the account manager to attend.

  It was perfect.

  I was like a kid at Christmas. The crag didn’t even seem to bother me anywhere near as much with all her clubs and brochures. She’d be gone soon. She even seemed to be in a better mood lately—definitely a side effect of my brighter outlook on life. Turns out you can endure quite a lot when you know it’s temporary.

  The trip to Pittsburgh came and went without a hitch. I used the Ft. Lauderdale public library to do the internet search before I left, and called Ginnie from the hotel’s lobby phone to set up brunch at Pelligroso’s, a local Pittsburg watering hole. In the middle of the morning, there’d be nobody there—nobody I knew anymore, anyway. But when we were setting up the brunch, I asked a few extra questions and Ginnie figured out the reason for the call. She gave me the private number for her now-former husband, which I called right away. Lou—the hit man is always named Lou, isn’t he?—was very understanding about these things. Very businesslike, one might say—which would make sense; it actually was his business. Ginnie agreed it’d be better if we weren’t seen together, just in case, and she knew I’d need to get out of town. Although she did take another shot at having me stop by the house “to see her back yard” as kind of a going away present.

  I explained my situation to Lou—Chopper, his professional name—as vaguely as possible, but he understood right away. I guess people only call him on his private line when they need a certain type of job done. With the general details in place, we were all set. He wanted to come to Florida and meet in person, collect his fee, nail down the fine points of the arrangement, and give me one last chance to back out. Then he’d move ahead, and at that point the deal would be irreversible. I’d eventually get a call from the police and learn the crag had some sort of accident, and that she was dead. All for the low, low price of five thousand dollars.

  Yeah, I thought that was kind of steep, too, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I could shop around.

  Actually, it was five grand plus another two for the airfare and his hotel, but Marcie said she and her husband had spent more than ten thousand dollars on their divorce lawyers—to each come away with half of their assets—so spending seven to keep everything seemed like a good deal. I got the impression Lou was giving me a discount, too. I guess Ginnie really came through; she fixed me up good. If I was ever back in Pittsburgh—which I hoped never to be—maybe I’d have to thank her somehow.

  On the flight home, I was filled with a feeling of satisfaction and relief. All the crag’s nagging and complaining was about to be over. I’d have my money and I’d have my peace of mind, and I’d have . . . heck, I might even collect a little insurance money!

  I hadn’t thought about that. I was so focused on the crag not getting her angry mitts on my cash that I forgot we had life insurance. Now, if it looked like an accident, I’d get another hundred thousand dollars!

  Why, it was Christmas morning! And Chopper Lou was Santa Claus.

  So even though the flight was bumpy as hell and the coffee sucked (and the pretzels were stale—what’s up with that? How hard is it to keep a little bag of pretzels fresh?) I was exuberant. The sky was bluer, the grass was greener, the birds were chirping. All was right with the world.

  Avery had a baseball game that I might even attend. Nothing like hot dog at the ballpark, with the fresh air and the crowd. Nothing like it. And who knows, Avery might even get a hit. It was that kind of a day.

  And then it hit me.

  Avery.

  I loved that little moron. Sure, he whined a lot, and he wasn’t much of a ball player, but . . . he didn’t deserve to grow up without a mother. He was a pretty good kid—although he had kind of a big head, really, and by that I don’t mean he was egotistical, but quite simply he had a large cranium—and he was never going to be mistaken for Brad Pitt with those ears, but none of that was his fault. He was kind-hearted. Gentle.

  He needed his mother. All kids should have their parents.

  I swallowed hard.

  All kid should have both parents.

  As in, if the worst should happen, despite all my TV crime show precautions, he might end up with none. The crag would be dead and I’d be in prison. Or even worse, the crag would somehow be alive and I’d be in prison. That, actually, seemed far worse.

  The wind went out of me. I couldn’t do it. He didn’t deserve that. Imagine going to school as the kid with the father in prison. No, it would be better to . . .

  It would be better to . . .

  Hmm.

  No, I couldn’t hire Lou for two jobs. Out of the question. I’m not made of money.

  I’d have to bite the bullet and—holy cow, what a reference—I’d have to stop it and undo what I’d set in motion.

  And how exactly does one call a hit man and rescind? I’m sure he’d keep the money, after all. Ugh. That meant more travel so I could pad more expense reports and refill my coffers. Lou didn’t seem to run a “satisfaction guaranteed” kind of business; the complaint department was probably handled by a .38 caliber revolver in a dark alley.

  But that was the least of my worries, or should have been. What kind of person was I, anyway? The kind of despicable human being that would kill another person? Well, no; I was the kind of almost-as-despicable person who’d hire someone to kill another person.

  Take my son’s mother from him? Take my in-laws’ daughter from them? No, I couldn’t do it.

  I heaved a heavy sigh. I’d do the right thing: file for divorce and pray she got hit by a truck before it was finalized. Marcie would understand, and one day, when Avery was having problems with his wife, maybe I could tell him what I almost did—to the crag, to him, and to myself.

  Or, probably not. No, I don’t think we go there. No.

  Okay, so: how do we undo this mess?

  The seven grand was going to hurt, not doubt about that. That was seven gone, out of pocket, poof, from the expense report money I’d been hiding from the crag. That hurt because it was real money spent. I’d been padding my travel expense repo
rts for quite a while to create that nest egg, and now it was gone.

  The hundred thousand disappearing, wow, that hurt, too, but more like in a Christmas is gonna be here next month kind of way, and then the kid finds out it’s still July or something. I don’t know. I’m not much for metaphors.

  I won’t lie, the divorce was going to hurt. But I’d get through it, and if Marcie wouldn’t hang in there, then the heck with her. There were other fish in the sea. But I think she’d stay. She’d been through it. She’d help me.

  And as simple as that, it was all resolved again. I had a plan.

  Or most of one.

  How was I supposed to stop the killer from carrying out his mission? After all, I couldn’t call him—that went against all the TV crime show rules. I couldn’t stage another trip to Pittsburgh. That would look way too suspicious to everyone, and on my prior trip, Pittsburgh still smelled as bad as ever, so that wasn’t happening. Even if nothing went wrong, another sudden trip there wouldn’t look right.

  But . . .

  Oh yeah! The final meeting.

  Chopper Lou had insisted we meet in person one last time, to go over the details—and, if I recall correctly, reaffirm that I wanted the crag dead. Well, all I had to do was tell him I’d changed my mind! Easy-peasy. I no longer wanted her dead, and please just stop everything.

  I pondered that for a while. Yes, he’d insisted. We’d meet, hand over the cash, finalize the arrangements, and confirm that he was to proceed with the mission.

  So all I had to do was pony up the dough and say stop, and the deal was off.

  I wondered if I could get a discount for not actually making him do the job. After all it was like a deposit, and the actual services weren’t going to be rendered . . .

  No, no, no. Greed is what got all the TV crime people caught. Just fork over the cash and tell him it was a no go. I’m sure it happens all the time in his business. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t have insisted on making me finalize it.

  The man was, after all, a professional.