Malice Times Read online

  “Who was here last night?”

  “No one.”

  “Isn’t there always someone here?”

  “Not always.” He winced in pain as he dug the knife a little too far underneath his thumbnail and a trickle of blood appeared.

  “Why not always?”

  “This is a boat dock, not Fort Knox.” He stuck his thumb in his mouth and started sucking. He looked like a disgustingly large baby.

  “I see. Anyone ask you not to be here last night?”

  “No one ever asks me nothing and I never see nothing.” His mouth was made for hourly feedings, not for talking. You’d never find Jimbo on a witness stand.

  “I see. Mind if I look around?”

  “Like I said, I never see nothing. Especially ghosts like you.”

  “How far out would you have to take a body where it would wash up the next morning? Or can’t you handle hypotheticals?”

  “What’s a hypothetical?”

  “Thank you so much for your help.”

  “No problem. And to answer your question, not far.”

  I left the Jeep at the entrance and walked down the docks. Not a lot of boats occupied the various berths. Not a lot of business being conducted in town today. The first boat I passed was named Archer. Under the title was a drawing of a centaur with a bow and arrow. The next boat, in slot number thirteen, was The Donna, Robert Dempsey’s boat, named after his late wife. His grandfather and my great-grandfather had been partners during Prohibition. When Prohibition ended, much to the chagrin of both the Dempsey and Marchello families, they went their separate ways. Near the end of the docks was a boat called The Prodigal Son. I looked around like I was part of some elaborate joke. Right above the black lettering was a drip of what looked like red paint. I didn’t want to touch it, but upon closer examination, it was a single drop of blood that had hit the side of the boat and trickled down before drying.

  I had spent my whole life around boats. My father loved them. It was one of the few things we shared in common. It was the reason I chose the Navy after leaving Malice Grove over any other branch of the military. I stepped on to The Prodigal Son and walked down into the cabin. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. More blood maybe. I went through some drawers and found the ownership papers. I already knew that the boat belonged to my father. The papers only confirmed the fact. I walked to the stern of the boat. There were no signs of blood. I looked over the back and saw the trickle of blood. If someone had dropped Michael off the stern of the boat, they would have laid him right here. I could see no signs that anyone had been on the boat recently. I walked up to the flying bridge and looked around. Nothing. Clean as a whistle.

  ♦♦♦

  I went back to my hotel room and laid there for a while trying to piece together the series of events. Michael calls me. That’s not part of the series of events. That is not even relevant. The police would probably have a different opinion about that. So, someone tried to kill Michael. It spooks him. He tries to arrange for some protection. Is that what he was trying to do by calling me? There are plenty of people in this town who he could have gotten for protection. Did he not trust anyone? Is that why he came to me? It always comes back to me, doesn’t it? I can’t even think about it straight. Someone tries to kill Michael and then someone actually does. He is in his apartment building, someone comes up and stabs him to death. Something gets broken in the attack, which accounts for the broken ceramic. So, there was some kind of struggle. Whoever does this has enough time to somehow sneak the body out of the apartment down to the docks, on to my father’s boat and dump Michael’s body in the lake. This person also has enough time to clean up the murder scene.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to leave. This killer was able to evade detection or did he. I would have to ask the neighbors what they heard, especially the owner of the apartment down the hall who peered out as I stood in front of my brother’s door. If anyone had heard or seen anything, it would be them. Then, it finally hit me, my brother was dead. Actually, dead, not the my family is dead to me that I had been playing at for the past ten years. Sadness overtook me and then another feeling I was more accustomed to, anger.

  6

  When the day of the funeral arrived three days later, I was going a bit stir crazy. I had ventured out one night to watch the dog races knowing that I could hide in the crowd if needed. A family reunion was not on the agenda, but I couldn’t get what I wanted inside that pitiful little motel room, so I sucked it up and headed to the funeral. My father would be there. So would my mother. Brad Graber would be there. A hulking man with a kind face. He worked for my father, but he was more than that. He was family. He was one of the people I missed most over the years.

  When I got to the church, I hid in the back like a frightened child. Like most Catholic funerals, Michael's was long, but I found comfort as always. After the church service we headed over to Resurrection Cemetery. Thick mid-morning dew covered the graveyard grass. The weatherworn tombstones jutted crookedly from the ground. The solid granite exterior of the mausoleum had seen better days. Cracks in the granite were lined with vines. The name MARCHELLO stood proudly over the now open entrance.

  My parents stood by the entrance to the mausoleum. My father was a squat man and more rotund than ever. His dark hair was slicked back and flat against the dome of his enormous head. His jowls hung down his neck like a bloodhound. My mother was very thin and stood two inches taller than my father. Her blue eyes were blank as they stared out across the graveyard and into the distance.

  A priest stood next to them. His eyes set deep inside his skull as if they were trying to recede like a turtle head in its shell. Wrinkles lined his face like a roadmap. His mouth was agape out of weariness.

  Six thugs, with guns bulging beneath their long overcoats, carried the casket, and then stepped behind my father. There was no earthly reason to wear overcoats on a hot morning other than to conceal those firearms. For the first time, my father noticed me as I stood in the back. His eyes penetrated me, lacking any surprise. Clearly, he had been informed of my return. I stood my ground, feeling as though his glare could topple me. I tried to keep my face as expressionless as possible and failed miserably. His eyes dropped from mine. I tried to convince myself that I somehow won the first battle of wills, a staring contest like a pair of ten-year-olds.

  Robert Dempsey stood not too far away looking very much the same as he did ten years ago. He was a big man of six feet four inches, about two hundred and fifty pounds. He was balding at the front. The remaining hair in the back was silver and hung long and wavy down to his shoulders. His arm was interlocked with a rather attractive young dyed blonde, her brown roots starting to show. She looked bored. Dempsey seemed amused by my presence.

  Stephen Archer stood just beyond Dempsey. He and my father were best friends. They had gone to school together and my dad had gotten him elected district attorney to help along the wheels of justice in the manner that he preferred. He was tall and very thin with spectacles slightly askew on his nose. His curly hair was red, speckled with gray. The same little mustache that was out of style even ten years ago was still visible on his face.

  The priest stepped up to the coffin, and the hundred plus people started to push forward knocking me forward toward the coffin. One of the pallbearers, a massive man with blond hair, who looked like he could carry the coffin on his own, removed one of the largest handguns I had ever seen from inside his coat. The gun looked like a toy in his massive hands. The toy let off a thunderous explosion toward the bright blue sky. Healthy, green leaves fell from the trees and many a bird began to squawk. Everyone stopped dead in their tracks. It was truly the most ridiculous thing I had ever witnessed. I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked at me with a confused look. My father seemed appalled. My mother wasn’t even there, still staring out in the distance. I wondered if she had moved on to something a little bit stronger than alcohol to dull her feelings.

  "Anyone who isn't of
the immediate family or a close personal friend of Michael is kindly asked to leave the cemetery and go back to the Marchello home where a post funeral party --" Just then my father tapped the massive man on the kneecap. The man bent down to inquire what the little man wanted, and my father whispered something in his ear.

  "I mean wake," he continued. A smattering of snickers emanated from the crowd. The blond man took mental notes of those who snickered. "Which will be held in Michael's honor. Thank You."

  The monstrous man glanced in my direction and sneered. I decided not to confront him about his lack of manners. I thought it a rather wise decision, considering his shoes were roughly the size of my torso.

  Most of the people left in a rush. They'd much rather have a drink in their hand than be out here listening to some old man ramble on about how great it was for Michael to be dead and on his way to a better place. It may be a better place, but the people in that cemetery were there out of respect for my father and nothing else. When given the okay to bail and go about living, they jumped at it. Malice Grove was all about living. Living it up, living large, living without consequence. Well, that's not exactly true. There were consequences to living in Malice Grove. My brother was in a casket after all. But as long as you kept on the good side of the right people, you could get away with almost anything. My brother had said he had done some bad things. What bad things? Whose bad side had he gotten on? Michael had made it sound like a running pattern for him. He wanted to make things right. Is that what got him killed or was it too late to make things right?

  If I hadn't been part of the immediate family, I would have vacated. But I was pretty sure the blond giant would reach out and grab me by the neck if I tried to leave. Two minutes later all that remained were Archer, Dempsey, the woman on his arm, my parents, the pallbearers, the priest and Joshua, who had managed to remain hidden amongst the spectators. With everyone gone, he had nowhere to hide.

  We all stared at the beast with the cannon in his hand. A placid, bored look swept across his face. He yawned for dramatic effect. The blond man turned to the priest and buried the cannon underneath his blazer. The man nodded at the priest, who smiled unsteadily. How the gunshot didn’t cause the poor old guy to keel over from a heart attack was a mystery. A bible wavered in his frail hands. Perhaps his heart was deciding whether it should just give in to the inevitable. The priest began and I tuned him out.

  I edged my way closer to Joshua. His thin frame was draped in a dark suit. He wasn’t wearing the ball cap today. His sandy brown hair was cut close to his scalp. His deep blue eyes were trained squarely on the big man.

  "Who is the blond monster?" I asked.

  He spoke slowly in the same drawn out speech. "That's your daddy's right-hand man, Tom Watkins. Has been for about a year now."

  "Who pray tell is Tom Watkins, Tex?" I knew he hated being called Tex from the other night, but I really didn’t care. Being cooped up in a motel room for the last three days had me itching for a fight.

  "I’m not from Texas,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m from Vegas.”

  "Then stop talking like you’re straight out of a western.”

  “My manners are about all run out with you, son,” he said.

  “Son? What are you? Twenty?”

  “About that,” he said.

  “Not even that.”

  “I said about that.”

  "You’re twenty. You drive a brand-new Lexus. You carry a concealed weapon under that very nicely tailored suit. Yeah, I’m perceptive. You say you’re from Vegas, but you talk like you are straight out of a Cormac McCarthy novel. Who the hell are you?"

  His deep blue eyes bore into me and the drawl had disappeared a bit. "Since you'll find out anyway, I work for Bruce Drake, in pretty much the same manner your Tom Watkins works for your daddy." He paused and raised his voice a little. "Only I'm better. So perhaps, just maybe, you should watch your manners a bit.”

  My father glanced over in our direction for a moment. A look of bewilderment or fear fell upon his face. I couldn’t really tell which. I hadn’t seen Brad Graber anywhere. He wasn’t at the church and he sure as hell wasn’t at the cemetery, unless he was hiding behind a tombstone like a goblin and Tom Watkins was apparently doing his job.

  “Where’s Brad Graber?”

  “Who is Brad Graber? Never heard of him.” Suddenly the accent was gone.

  "Your accent is showing, Tex," I said.

  Joshua turned back to the priest and folded his hands across his belt buckle. He wore black leather driving gloves, which struck me just as odd as the pallbearers wearing overcoats, especially considering it was the middle of June. He walked away from me.

  Just then I felt someone standing over my right shoulder. I turned to face Robert Dempsey. He had left the fake blonde where she stood. I couldn’t help but think of Rae Dempsey. When I started dating Rae when we were both sophomores in high school, both of our parents exploded with rage. Then Dempsey started to take me under his wing. I’m sure he thought he could exploit me somehow. Perhaps he just wanted to stick it to my dad. Most people think that all teenagers are completely oblivious to what is going on around them. For the most part, teenagers just don’t give a damn how they are used. They just want what they want and are willing to do whatever they can to get it. All I cared about was being with Rae. After a while, Dempsey and I just became friendly. He liked me and I loved his daughter.

  "You would be wise to avoid that one," he said indicating Joshua with a tilt of his head.

  "Probably. But I’ve never been wise in avoiding the people I should.”

  Then he smiled. "How are you?"

  "You know," I said. "You're the first person to even have the courtesy to ask me that question."

  "Don't flatter yourself. It's only a courtesy."

  I couldn't help but laugh. My father stared at me intensely.

  "Your father doesn't approve,” he said.

  "My father never approved of anything concerning me or anything remotely concerning you. By the way how is Rae?"

  "Don’t ask. She was going to come to the funeral, but she heard you were back and decided to avoid the meeting."

  "I don’t blame her," I said. “Seems like everyone feels the same way. Even Joshua got away from me as fast as he could. And he doesn’t strike me as someone who scares easily.”

  "Joshua doesn’t scare. He does the scaring. I still advise strongly to stay away from that one. He’s young and tempestuous. A bad combination."

  "What about this Bruce Drake guy?" I asked.

  "Someone else to avoid."

  "Who is he?"

  "I don’t know. Came here from Vegas about a year ago. Seems to have an interest in taking over some of mine and your father’s business. He has some powerful friends. We’ll all be working for him when it’s over."

  "My father will never work for anyone and neither will you."

  "Then we’ll both be dead. Either way the end is coming.” He coughed a hard, long cough. My father looked over at us in annoyance once again. “Although, I may have to stick around a while longer. I think things are going to get interesting around here like they haven’t been interesting in a very long time.”

  “Where’s Brad?” I asked looking at Tom Watkins.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I think things are going to get very interesting indeed.”

  Just then the priest tucked his bible underneath his arm. Watkins stepped forward first and I envisioned him picking up the coffin, tucking it under his arm like a football, running into the mausoleum and spiking it as if he had just scored a touchdown, but the other five followed his lead. They lifted the coffin and followed the priest into the mausoleum.

  7

  The stagnant odor of liquor and smoke engulfed me as I entered my parents’ house. I closed the big oak door behind me. It slammed shut with the authority only oak possessed. The odor of flowers lingered underneath the smell of smoke, booze and sweat. My stomach flipped once and then again in adam
ant protest. As I stepped into the living room, the source of the odor became abundantly clear. The flower arrangements pressed against the walls in some kind of floral military formation. They had the fifty or so people who occupied the room surrounded. The only defense against the military might of the flower arrangements were the cigarettes they tugged at between their pursed lips. Smoke hovered above their heads like a dark thundercloud.

  On the far side of the room stood Tom Watkins. He noticed me staring and raised his glass in my direction. The gesture was menacing, as though he were toasting my impending death. I turned to leave. This had been a mistake. I was walking into the lion’s den just as I had on the cold February night I had gotten shot.

  My father stepped out from nowhere and grabbed me by the arm. The scars acquired as a young man had become enormous craters in his plump Italian face. He no longer wore his trademark moustache. I stood about seven inches taller. I got my height from my mom’s end of the gene pool. He looked up into my face. "Our family should be together.”

  "The whole family? I don’t think Michael is going to show."

  He lowered his head. "That was pretty low. Despite your nastiness, Joe, I'm glad you're here. It's been a long time."

  "Not long enough, I assure you.”

  "Where have you been?"

  "Tibet. I became a monk."

  "You’re beginning to annoy me, Joseph. Still just a bitter little boy."

  “Bitter? Surely you jest. I’ve come here with only one thing on my mind, to set things right between us, pop. So what do you say, want to bury the hatchet? Or is the hatchet buried in someone else at the moment? Perhaps we can go out in the backyard and toss the pigskin around?”

  "I hear you changed your last name to March,” he said ignoring my vitriol. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t care much for it myself.

  “Good news travels fast.”

  "Are you going to tell me where you've been, what you’ve been up to?" he asked.

  "I told you. I became a Tibetan monk. I took a vow of silence. It didn’t take."