Malice Times Page 8

"Blackmail? What kind of blackmail?"

  "You know the kind where you get paid to keep your mouth shut about something.”

  “I understand the nature of blackmail,” I said. “I meant who was he blackmailing and over what.”

  “I couldn’t tell you that, honest,” he said. “We just heard him demanding money on the phone all the time. That if he doesn’t get the money, the whole thing would be splashed across the front page of the Malice Times. Things like that.”

  "When can I move in?" I asked.

  "Whenever you like," he said. "Eight hundred a month plus utilities."

  "Eight hundred for this dump?"

  "I see a man who maybe, probably, would pay more."

  "You're not as dumb as you look," I said. "How much did my brother pay?"

  "Not eight hundred a month, but then he wasn't exactly desperate, was he?"

  "I can't think of any other reason to live in this place, can you?"

  "I really couldn't tell you."

  "I’ll give you six hundred a month." I pulled out six hundred cash and offered it to him. "I just moved in." I stretched out my hand. He looked at the money and nodded his head. After taking the money, he removed a key from his key ring and handed it to me.

  "The original is gone," he said. "Got washed out of his pocket when he was dumped in the lake I suppose, but we're changin' the locks anyway, just in case. I'll get it taken care of by tomorrow and get you a set of keys."

  "Thanks," I said. I watched him walk down the stairs and his feet creaked loudly with every step. That was one benefit of living here, a built-in alarm system. I closed the door.

  When I picked up the black phone to call my motel to check out, I saw that it was perfectly spotless, no fingerprints or smudges of any kind. I looked at the rug that was still off center in the room. I grabbed the edge and pulled the carpet back. I knelt down on the hardwood floor. The red patch on the floor was fading. There had been an attempt to clean it up, but without spending some time and money a bloodstain is going to stay and this one did. I replaced the rug across the floor and moved around the room. It was a charming little room in the light of day, which surprised me considering how dreary it felt the night I had come back to Malice Grove.

  A sudden chill came over me. The place went suddenly cold and I had to get out. I walked across the hall to meet Mr. Carver. The sound of the television blared from behind the door. I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again louder. "Answer the door," a man said from within.

  "Get off your fat ass and answer it yourself," a woman said.

  I heard the breaking of glass against a wall a moment later and wondered if I should walk casually back into my apartment. A moment later a large man roughly six feet six inches and three hundred pounds flung the door open. He smelled of whiskey.

  "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

  "My name's Joe March," I said. "Perhaps you've heard of me. I am kind of a local celebrity."

  "What do you want? I’m not on the clock."

  "Can I come in?" I asked.

  "Why?" He eyed me suspiciously.

  "Because I want the pleasure of your company. I'm just a lonely out-of-towner."

  "Are you high?"

  "No. Are you?"

  He laughed and moved away from the door. I made my entrance into the greatest contrast that is possible to my brother's apartment. The man moved over to a broken-down old sofa held together by duct tape and sat down. He stared blankly at a small television watching a baseball game. Denny Neagle was on the mound for the Pirates. The Montreal Expos were at bat.

  "Want a beer or something?" he asked.

  Just then a small woman moved out of the kitchen and stared at me for a moment. I smiled in her direction and she smiled back.

  "Hi," she said. "My name is Cheryl and this is my husband, Charles. He’s not usually so unhospitable. Aren't you that guy everyone is talking about?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Am I?"

  "You're Mr. Marchello's son, aren't you?"

  "That's what they tell me, but I don't believe it. Switched at birth."

  She looked at me puzzled and I realized any kind of sarcasm was wasted on her. Charles laughed and shook his head.

  "Don't you mind her, boss," he said. "She ain't too bright."

  Cheryl stared at Charles for a moment with intense anger and turned to leave.

  "Don't leave," I said. "What is everyone saying about little old me?"

  "They're talking about you coming to solve your brother's murder."

  "Are they now? What else are they saying?"

  "I wouldn't like to say," she said.

  "Don't worry about me. Thick skin."

  "Well, they say you ought to go back to where you came from before you end up like your brother."

  "Why would that happen to me?" I asked.

  "Because they think you're too smart for your own good."

  "They might be right about that."

  "Mr. March," she said, walking to me. "Go home. Go far away from here and never come back. This is an evil place. People like you don't belong here. I've been trying to get Charles away from here for a long time now, but he won't go. I don't blame him none. He's got a good job here. He don't have a chance anywhere else to get a good job like that. You just go away and leave everyone in peace."

  "Everyone wants me to go. At least you're nice about it. But I could tell you some stories about me that would set your hair on end. This place may not want me, but this place certainly needs me. Besides, I can't go, I'm the new owner of The Malice Times."

  "I know,” Charles said. “I work for you, boss. I'm one of the guys that run the printing presses.”

  "That is a coincidence," I said.

  "You can't own it," Cheryl said. "That's bad. Your brother owned it before you and he's dead. Mr. Bryant disappeared and he owned it before him. That paper got a death curse. Do what I tell you and run away again."

  "That wouldn't be very productive of me," I said.

  She was visibly upset. She turned away from me and walked to the kitchen door where she stopped, turned and stared at me. "Then I'm looking at a ghost." She walked into the kitchen. The hair on my arms stood up and my flesh got goose bumps. I felt like someone had just walked across my grave.

  "Maybe I will have a drink," I said.

  "Don't mind her, boss," Charles said. "She's a little screwy."

  "She may be saner than you think. What can you tell me about my brother's murder?"

  "Not much," he said. "One day he was there. The next, he wasn't."

  "But you lived across the hall from him. You have to know something. Heard something. The people he talked to and entertained at home. Did anyone strange ever come to his apartment?"

  "Well, that Joshua guy came around some. He's a strange dude. Scary, too.”

  "Anyone else?"

  "Ms. Cranston came,” he said. “That big blonde guy, I can't remember his name."

  "Tom Watkins?"

  "Yeah, that's the guy. He came around once or twice, but never went into the apartment."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't think they liked each other. Watkins was normally just relaying a message from Mr. Marchello."

  "Did you ever hear what they talked about?" I asked.

  "Sure, most of the time it was about the paper. Mr. Marchello was trying to buy the paper from him, I think."

  "How did my brother respond to that?"

  "The way your brother responded to everything, he ignored it."

  "Did you hear anything else?"

  "Well," Charles said. "I might have heard some other things that I'm not so sure about."

  "For instance?"

  "I wouldn't like to say."

  "Did it have something to do with blackmail?"

  "Now how would you know that?" he asked.

  "A wheezing bird told me. Could it have been?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I think it might have been just that."

  "Who was he blackmailing?" />
  "I don't know. You see, you have to understand, your brother spoke very loudly when he was on the phone. He was the type of person you could hear across a room through a telephone. So I got to hear a few of his telephone conversations."

  "What did he say?" I asked.

  "Things about money and how to pay him. Just stuff like that. I think he was blackmailing someone, probably more."

  "More than one? What gave you that impression?"

  "I don't know. He seemed to talk about it on the phone an awful lot."

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I saw him at the paper. The evening edition had just finished printing. I saw him leave. That’s the last time I saw him.”

  “Did he say anything?” I asked.

  “No. He just left.”

  “Did you go home that night?”

  “No. Me and Cheryl went and had a bite to eat and then played some cards.”

  “Where at?”

  “At The Garlic Clove,” he said.

  “You gamble a lot at my dad’s place?” I asked.

  “Cheryl likes to play blackjack and I like to drink. It’s a nice little arrangement.”

  I stood up.

  "You still want that drink?” he asked. “I can get Cheryl to bring you one."

  I did, but I left anyway.

  14

  Iparked my Jeep in front of The Garlic Clove, got out and handed my keys to the valet. I walked through the doors, which were held open by a doorman. The doorman tipped his hat and nodded. Once inside, a man wearing a tuxedo approached.

  "May I seat you, Mr. March?"

  "No," I said. "I'm going to the gaming room."

  "Of course, Mr. March," he said. "Your father is at the roulette table."

  "Is it Russian roulette? Could save me a bit of trouble." I walked past him, around the bar and to a closed door, which was being guarded by a man who served as a pall bearer at the funeral. His name was Marcus. I had a vague recollection of him and Brad being friendly.

  "Hello, Mr. March," the big man said. "May I help you with anything?"

  "You can open the door."

  "I'm sorry, I don't think I can. I'm not sure your father would like that."

  "Brad would let me in," I said. He sighed and opened the door. I walked through the door, but before I could enter, I turned to Marcus and held the door open with my hand.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. March?” he asked with a weary look.

  “Brad Graber?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I heard you were asking about that.”

  “What can you tell me?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” he said and turned from me. As I went to walk away from him, he grabbed me by the arm and whispered into my ear. “At least not here.”

  He released me and the door closed between us. I stood there for a moment trying to figure out how to find Marcus outside of my father’s business. I didn’t know anything about the man, not even his last name. I've only been in my father's gaming room twice. It was nothing like I remembered, but few things are the way we remember them as children. I remembered the place like a kid would remember an arcade, a happy place. Now all I saw were sad people burning their money chasing a quick fix to their problems. The games were pretty much the same. My father was sitting at the roulette table. Tom Watkins was playing blackjack. I decided not to approach either one of them and moved over to a Texas hold’em poker game that was being played at a rear table. To my surprise sitting in on the game was Joshua. When he saw me he nodded his head. He had a huge pile of chips in front of him. The other five looked as if they were losing big. One of the men folded and withdrew from the game.

  Joshua looked at me and asked, "Would you like to sit in, Mr. March?"

  The other four set of eyes lit up eager to cleave money from fresh meat. Texas hold’em was a new game. One in which they had experience. They saw me as a young man who couldn’t possibly know anything about Texas hold’em, but Texas hold’em was a young game and a young man’s game. A game in which I had plenty of experience. I nodded my head and took the empty chair.

  "How many chips do you want?" the dealer asked.

  I pulled out my cash and said, "Start me out with five hundred."

  The dealer gave me my chips. It was not a game for the squeamish. The blinds were ten and twenty dollars. The dealer gave two cards to each player. My hand consisted of a nine and ten of hearts. Everyone checked around to Joshua who was sitting in the big blind. He bet an extra twenty. Everyone called. The dealer burned a card, then turned three cards face up in front of him, and called the flop, which was the ace of clubs, eight of hearts and jack of hearts. Check all the way to Joshua who bet twenty dollars. He was trying to keep people in the game and still increase the pot. He must have pocket aces and now had three. The man to Joshua's left called. The man to my right folded. I wanted to know if my read of him was accurate. Sometimes you have to lose a little money at first to win big later. I raised him twenty. The man to my left folded and the man to his left folded. Joshua eyed me suspiciously and threw in twenty more to call. The man to Joshua's left, who had called the original twenty, gave me a dirty look and folded. The dealer burned a card and then turned over a single card, the turn, which was the eight of diamonds. If Joshua had pocket aces, he now had a full house and I had two cards in the deck that could beat him. Joshua bet fifty. He could see the straight flush possibilities and wanted to scare me away. I should have folded, but I don’t scare easy. Besides I wasn’t really playing with my money. I raised him fifty. Joshua glared at me. He stared down at the cards with confusion trying to see if there was something that he had missed. He hadn’t. He glanced back up at me.

  "I call," he said. He flipped up his pocket aces. “How about no bets on the river? Flip them now?”

  “You that curious?”

  “You obviously know what I have,” he said.

  I flipped up my nine and ten of hearts.

  "You should have raised," I said.

  "You're chasing."

  "It seems like I've been doing a lot of that lately. Besides, there are still two cards that beat you. So, which one is coming? The seven of hearts or the queen of hearts?"

  "You put a hundred bucks down on the chance of two cards."

  "I like taking chances.”

  "Flip the card," Joshua said angrily.

  The dealer burned a card and placed a single card on the board facedown for dramatic effect. He was a good dealer, knew how to play the crowd. I looked down at the card as it was flipped. "What a pretty little lady she is."

  Joshua's jaw jutted and then he laughed. "Are these house rules?"

  "The house doesn't like me very much. You forget."

  I raked in my winnings. Joshua stared at me in annoyance. The others smiled uneasily and the game continued. I won for near on an hour, taking mostly from Joshua, who was getting frustrated. The others held out as long as they could, but eventually they lost. No one else joined. They were staying out of our way. The dealer looked at both of us with a questioning glance.

  "Deal," Joshua said.

  The dealer dealt me two cards down and did the same to Joshua. Joshua didn't look at his cards and neither did I.

  "What you say we make this the last hand?” Joshua asked. Without looking at his cards he pushed his remaining chips into the middle of the table. The irritation and frustration were gone. What was left was a boyish glint of intrigue at his risk. “Let's make it interesting. Five hundred and sixty dollars. All of it on this hand."

  I looked down at my pile. I had more than two times that. I pushed all my chips in the middle. “I’ll even make it more interesting. If you win, you get everything on the table.”

  “You sure? That’s two to one.”

  “It’s only money,” I said. “Let’s have some fun.”

  There was a crowd. Joshua flipped up his hole cards and revealed an eight of spades and an ace of clubs. Not a great hand, but certain
ly not awful. When I flipped mine up, Joshua laughed. I had a two of spades and a seven of diamonds. I laughed too. It was one of the worst hands you could be dealt. Then came the flop and neither of us were laughing. The flop revealed a seven of clubs, a nine of hearts and a ten of diamonds. No flush possibilities. Although I was leading the hand with a pair of sevens, any eight, ace, six or jack would beat me. The next card came up an eight of hearts and I was down. Joshua pumped his fist and stood up. A big sigh went out from the crowd. My father was there and shook his head. The dealer buried a card and then pulled out the next card and flipped it over. The two of hearts sat there taunting Joshua from the table. I had two pair to Joshua's one.

  A cheer went out from the crowd. I pulled in my winnings. Joshua came around the table and shook my hand. Then, he moved away and disappeared into the crowd. I cashed in my chips. I made my way over to the bar and bought myself a shot of tequila. It tasted rather good. My father walked over to me and patted me on the back.

  "Where did you learn to play Texas hold’em like that?” he asked.

  "The Navy. We had a couple of card sharks on board. It was their favorite game.”

  “Now that you’ve won big, are you going to lose some of that at my tables? Perhaps roulette."

  "Only fools play roulette,” I said. “When did you last see Michael?”

  “Back to business I see. The day before he died. He came by the house. He wanted to look through his books for some reason. I did talk to him the night he died, though. He called me up.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “He wanted to talk about his moving back home.”

  I waited for him to continue. He looked at me irritated. Finally, our staring contest ended the only way it could. He continued. “Look, it wasn’t a great conversation. He was having second thoughts about moving back home. I got angry with him. He got angry with me. We both said some nasty things. And then he was gone and I couldn’t take any of it back.”

  “Why was he moving back home?” I asked.

  He paused again and looked around the room to either find some reason to leave the conversation or to see if anyone was listening. “It was a condition of my buying The Malice Times from him. He needed the capital for some reason. He was desperate. I used his desperation to get him to move back home. He didn’t argue about it at all until that night. He wanted to come home. It was his idea.”