Malice Times Read online

  "None of you will believe who I'm going to leave the paper to, so I figured it would be easier to accept if you heard it straight from me."

  Everyone except Watkins' glanced, for a moment, at me. I felt like there was a joke that I hadn’t been let in on. I stared at my brother on the screen. He paused for dramatic effect. That little jerk was about to put me in a difficult spot. Everyone here knew it and I finally got the joke. I laughed a little to myself even before the words escaped from his mouth. Clever little guy. I missed him more than I thought.

  "Well, I give the Malice Times to my brother, Joe March, and all the assets that go along with it."

  Blondie stood up quickly. She sneered at the television, turned and walked out of the room. Watkins watched her go. "As for all my other things, I give to my mother to do with as she wishes."

  My mother smiled at that. The front door opened and the storm outside sounded off loudly. The storm had nothing on the sound the door made the next moment.

  Watkins' hands had become iron fists in his lap. He kneaded his thighs with those huge hands. He had begun rocking back and forth in his chair. He glanced at me for a moment, then back at the set. The look he gave me was not one of anger, but of pain as though he were undergoing a rectal exam.

  "As for all the money in my bank account at Steele Savings and Loan, I also give that to my brother. Joe, I will be calling you for help soon. I’m not sure if you will accept my request or not. If you don’t, this is my insurance that you will help me now. The money in that bank account and The Malice Times are yours in exchange for whatever kind of help you can give me now that it is too late. If you decide to leave Malice Grove before you discover who killed me, everything will revert to my father.”

  My father had walked to the archway that lead to the foyer and looked out of the room. Watkins continued rocking back and forth. My mother smiled at the image of my brother on the screen. I sat in a big plush chair. Michael had been very sure that someone was going to kill him. Now, he had put me in a similar situation.

  My brother stood up and walked towards the camera holding a bunch of papers in his hands. When he got to the camera, he held the will up to the camera so everyone could see. He walked back to his desk and signed the papers. It would have seemed melodramatic for anyone other than my brother.

  "Now there will be no disputing the fact of the authenticity of this will. This video will be given to my brother at the end of the reading. This ends my last will and testament."

  The screen went fuzzy. Bromley pressed the stop button and turned off the television. He hit the eject button on the VCR. The VCR made some noises and the tape popped out like someone sticking their tongue out at the whole room.

  Watkins stood up and walked out of the room with a slight grin.

  My mother stood up next and walked over to me. She kneeled down beside my chair and took my hand. She laid her face upon the back of my hand. "Be kind to your father, Joe. He's having a rough time, too, you know."

  I looked down at her and shook my head. New tears began to well up in her eyes. She stood up and walked away from me. Bromley placed the video into its box. He walked over to me and laid the manila folder and tape in my hands.

  "Mr. March, inside the folder you will find the deed to The Malice Times and all relevant papers." He opened the folder in my hands and showed me a handful of papers held together with a large paper clip.

  "I'll need a few signatures and some initials. I have marked each with a red x." He handed me the pen and I signed or initialed in all the relevant places. He took the paperwork from me. "That is your copy of the agreement of your brother's will. This signs the deed over to you."

  He showed me a copy of the old deed with my brother's signature under the signature of a man named Patrick Bryant at the bottom. It was dated September 8, 1994. I noticed at the bottom of the old deed the number, 13-05-22. I closed the folder.

  "When was this will made?" I asked.

  "Two days before his death," he said.

  "Why doesn't that surprise me? Talk about getting it in under the gun." I laughed. He didn't find it so amusing. Come to think of it, neither did I. He blew a stiff breeze of air out of his nostrils and walked to my father in the doorway.

  I looked at the tape. All that stuff Michael spouted off about hearing it from him so everyone would believe his will was a bunch of bull. He just liked being the center of attention, even in death. Plus, he had wanted to pit my father against me for some reason.

  My mother walked back over to me and looked at the tape longingly. "It was nice to see him alive again, wasn't it?"

  I smiled at her and handed her the tape. She grabbed it out of my hands and clutched it to her chest. "Thank you," she said and quickly walked out of the room.

  My father and Bromley seemed to be having a heated argument over something. My father was talking as low as possible between his teeth. He was asking about The Malice Times and how could Michael give it to someone if it wasn't his to give. Bromley, who talked a little more civilly, said something inaudible and my father turned away from him. Bromley walked out of the room, leaving my father and me there alone.

  I stood and started walking towards the archway.

  "Where are you going?" He asked when I reached the archway. He moved over to the portable bar and poured himself a drink. "You want anything?"

  "No," I said and walked towards him holding the folder under my arm.

  "You want to sell?"

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just asked me to leave Malice Grove? You’d get farther with that request.”

  “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement that you will be happy with,” he said.

  “Why would you want to buy something that apparently already belongs to you?” It was a stab in the dark, but it found its mark.

  “Apparently not. The price of dealing with lawyers.”

  “Meaning you fronted the money for the paper, but all the paperwork had to be in Michael’s name.”

  “Not exactly.” He took the whole glass of bourbon down his throat at once and slammed the glass down on the portable bar. A bottle of whiskey threatened to topple to the floor, but it held on. "What did you want in Michael's room?"

  "I am sure it hasn't escaped your powers of observation that I plan on finding out what happened to Michael. He alluded to it in his presentation. I have now been paid in full to do a job I was planning on doing anyway."

  "Most you’ve ever made on a job, I’d wager. How’s your shoulder by the way?"

  “How long have you known?” I asked.

  “You mean how long have I known where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to? Somewhere close to ten years.”

  “And you never sent anyone to haul me back here? That is a lie.”

  “What could I do to bring you back? I had no right,” he said. He stared right through me and into the distance. I wondered what he was thinking about. The night I left, but which part? Which part hurt the most for him? He shook his head, bringing him back to the present. “There was nothing I could do about it.”

  “Business trumps family,” I said.

  “In my business, it does. I don’t blame you for going. You did what you had to do.”

  “Just like I’m going to do now.”

  “You always have.”

  "I mean someone has to, don't you think? Not like you're running around throwing your considerable weight around."

  He raised his voice and his face flushed red. "Don't give me the ‘you're a bad father’ routine. It's already old. I was a good father. I gave you things you wanted within reason. I didn't spoil you, although I could have if I wanted to. And I protected you or at least I tried. I made one mistake. A big one. I don’t deny it. I wish things could have been different then, but they couldn’t. I had a debt to repay and I repaid it in full." He turned his back on me. His hands went across his thinning hair.

  "More than in full, don’t you think," I said.

  He swung a
round and smacked me across my face. The papers in the folder almost fell out, but didn't. I probably deserved it, but I bent back and gave him a hard right to his face. He stumbled over and fell to the ground. Blood trickled from his mouth. "Goddamn it, I'm still your father."

  "I’ve wanted to do that for ten years." I turned leaving him sprawled out on the floor. As I grabbed my coat and hat from the closet, I could hear weeping coming from upstairs and from the living room.

  10

  I walked up the stairs. Further down the hall and around the corner my mother sobbed gently from her bedroom. I pulled the key from my pocket and unlocked my brother's door. The room was dark, so I switched on the light. I closed and locked the door behind me. Everything was as it had been earlier in the day. I broke open the remaining boxes and rummaged through them. Three boxes were completely filled with books. Another had some winter clothing. The rest of the boxes were filled with useless knickknacks. There was nothing under the bed and nothing in the closet.

  I sat down on the bed and started looking through the books. His favorite authors seemed to be Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Erle Stanley Gardner. I flipped through the Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett novels first because there weren't that many of them. They revealed nothing. I started with the Erle Stanley Gardner collection of Perry Mason novels, which was no easy task considering he owned over fifty. I groaned in agony at the prospect, but pushed ahead anyway. After a few minutes, in a novel entitled, The Case of the Phantom Fortune, on the inside cover was written, “The garden.” More writing in books. I tucked it neatly in my back pocket.

  As I was throwing the books back in the boxes I heard a key in the lock of the door. I thought of hiding, but what would be the point. The door swung open and Watkins jumped back. Then he stepped forward into the room and stood in the doorway, the frame outlining his massive physique like a photograph.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked, his fists balled.

  "I should be asking you that question."

  Watkins strode into the room and closed the door behind him. He sized me up like a prize fighter. For a minute a sudden fear stabbed at me. I was pretty strong, but to take on this mountain of rock would be suicide, especially with a wounded wing.

  "I see that you aren't going to take my advice and leave Malice Grove."

  "What would give you that idea?"

  "I think I’ll rip your head off.”

  "I don't think I'd like that. I'm rather attached to it."

  "Keep joking," he said. "I'd just hate to be around when someone doesn't take kindly to your sense of humor."

  “You don’t seem to be taking very kindly to it.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  "Where did you get a key to this room?" I asked.

  "Where'd you?"

  "I asked you first."

  "I don’t care," he said and started walking towards me.

  "What were you so nervous about at the reading of the will?"

  "I wasn't nervous,” he said and stopped by Michael’s bed.

  "I suppose you always rock that vigorously when you get in a rocking chair."

  "What's it to ya?" he asked.

  "When I got the Malice Times, you seemed so very happy."

  "I couldn’t care less about the Malice Times.”

  “I’d be curious to find out what it is you do care about,” I said. I got up off the bed and walked over to the window. The thunder and lightning had stopped, but the rain was coming down hard. "What are you looking for that you think you can find in my dead brother's room?"

  No voice came from behind me, only the soft weeping of my mother through the door. I turned around to face Watkins.

  "Where were you the night my brother was killed?" I asked.

  He took a step forward. Then he thought better of it and turned away from me. That didn't satisfy me at all. I was past caring about my personal safety. I wanted to provoke him.

  "Where were you?" I asked again.

  “I was with a girl,” he said.

  “A girl?”

  “Yeah, you know what girls are, don’t you?”

  "Tell me about Brad Graber," I said.

  He turned on me, his face red, lips white in a tight grimace. "I told you to drop that."

  "Why? What exactly is it about Brad Graber’s murder that has you so on edge?”

  “Who said he was murdered?”

  “You did. You’ve been screaming it since I first mentioned it to you. You might as well have a neon sign on your chest saying Brad Graber is dead.”

  “Dead doesn’t always mean murdered.”

  “In this town, it does,” I said.

  He started walking towards me. I knew he was beyond the point of his limited thinking capacity. All he wanted to do was tear me limb from limb. I acted quickly. I knew I had no chance to out punch the ape. He came towards me and I made a head fake to the right. He was juked for a second and I made a run to the left. I jumped to the bed, but as I did he grabbed my right foot and I tumbled forward on the bed face first. I bounced off and fell to the ground on my back. Watkins walked around the bed and was standing above me. I kicked out at him, but he grabbed my foot and twisted it. Pain shot up my leg, so I twisted my body with my foot. I was practically standing on my hands. Pain shot up my right arm, the wound in my shoulder screamed. My physical therapist would have been pleased. He was pulling me up by my right leg. I had underestimated Watkins. I blindly kicked my left leg upwards and landed it on the underside of his chin. His teeth rattled.

  He dropped me and I fell to my stomach. A loud thud came from behind me. The room spun as I tried to get to my feet. Watkins was sitting on the floor against the wall, his hand wrapped around his mouth. I moved to the door and looked back at him. He removed his hand and blood dripped from his chin to his hand. His tongue darted out of his mouth and he felt it with his fingertip. It didn't look like he had bit all the way through. Hard to tell through all that blood.

  I went back to the bed, where I had left the folder and picked it up with the papers that had scattered on the floor. I opened the door and paused. I turned to him and saw him staring at me with a strange look on his face. It wasn't anger, fear, or even guilt. I found it hard to hate him at that moment. It was a boyish look, almost innocent. He was frightened of something and it wasn't me. I turned off the light and closed the door behind me, leaving him sitting in the darkness with his fear.

  I rolled the folder up in my coat and stuffed it in my pocket and walked out into the storm. The rain felt good against my red hot face. I walked down to my Jeep and looked back up at Michael's window. It was still dark inside the room. I imagined Tom Watkins sitting against the wall licking the blood off his lips thinking about whatever it was that was torturing him. I drove around in the rain for about an hour.

  I felt like I was on a roller coaster. Going up that first hill, looking down at the ground below, not being able to see the top of the hill, slowly edging my way up the hill all alone wanting to get off the coaster, because I couldn't take the anticipation. Wanting to get out, but there is no way off a roller coaster once you’re strapped in. You just have to move up that hill and wait for the sweet relief that comes with the first drop.

  I parked my car on the street not too far from my hotel. By the time I entered my room I was relaxed. The memory of the confrontation with Watkins and the look on his face had evaporated from my mind. I took a hot shower and pulled on a white terry-cloth robe. I slipped into bed and sleep came to me as though I were diving into a dark pool. I dreamt I was on the beach. A body laid face down in the sand. The back of his head was a bloody mess and a river of blood flowed from his body. It was raining and the lake crashed against the beach as though it were the Atlantic Ocean. I approached the corpse and turned him over. It was my father. His eyes bulged and his purple tongue dangled. The lake engulfed him and started to drag him out. I looked down and saw that I had a gun in my hand. The lake washed around him again and pulled him out deep into
the lake. His lifeless body came alive kicking and wailing, shouting for help. Hands reached out from beneath the surface and grabbed ahold of him, pulling him under. I woke up in a cold sweat. I took my white terry-cloth robe off and got under the sheets. I laid awake, staring into the dark, afraid to sleep.

  11

  The water lapped gently against the beach. Sweat beaded up on my head. There were already people on the beach this early in the morning. It was going to be a hot summer day. The town was already getting ready for the Fourth of July. Workers were hanging up red, white and blue flags with the faces of some of Malice Grove’s military men and women. In front of the Malice Times was a banner with me in my Navy uniform. I shook my head. I wondered if that had been hung here every Fourth of July for the last ten years. Two blocks down the faded green awning of The Grove jutted towards the lake. Beyond that I could more clearly see the structure that stood out in the water connected to Main Street by a long pier. It was a large wooden structure built to look like a boat. It sat on stilts close to the water to give at least the illusion that it was an actual boat. It had a crisp new look. It was painted white and had a blue stripe around the base. At this distance, it could almost pass for a three hundred foot yacht.

  I entered The Times through a steel door and into a little entryway. Straight ahead I heard the whirring noises of printing presses. I walked up the flight of stairs to the newsroom. My footsteps echoed loudly in the stairwell. Across the steel door the words ‘The Malice Times’ were in bold letters. Underneath in much smaller stenciling was ‘Michael Marchello - Editor.’

  I swung the door open and slid into the room. The room was large, almost the size of the entire building. Steel supports jutted up through the floor keeping the ceiling from falling down around the few occupied desks. The people behind them all glanced up for a second and then put their noses back down into their typewriters.