A GUILTY SECRET
By Richard Banks
“Have
you heard the news?” Mason speaks in a hoarse whisper that he don’t want anyone
else to hear. He’s scared, no mistaking that, and for a few moments so am I.
After all, when you’re locking-up at night, your back towards the street, the
last thing you want is for someone to be creeping-up behind you, maybe gun in
hand and about to demand everything you’ve just put in the safe.
“Damn you Mase! What the heck are you
doing? It’s 2am. You trying to give me a heart attack!”
“It’s happened again.”
In another place, another time I would
be asking him what has, but it’s only too obvious.
“Who is it this time?”
“Lorna.”
“Lorna Ruiz?”
“Yes, of course I mean Lorna Ruiz. Who
else do you know called Lorna?”
He’s got a point. In a two bit town
like Bylow, population 934, and decreasing, the only other Lorna would likely
be her mother but she’s not around and maybe never was. For once in his life
Mason’s right, that’s not what I should be saying.
“Same as before?” I ask.
Mason’s startled by the roar of a
Chrysler 300 that’s speeding towards us before braking and turning left at the
cross. He’s desperate not to be seen so we go around the corner. Into the side
way that’s almost cellar black. What he’s got to tell me, he says, is for my
ears only. He needs a favour and if he can ever do the same for me he’ll be
glad to do it. After all, that’s what friends are for. Don’t I agree?
I’m not sure I do but it seems I have
no choice but to hear him out. At first he tells me nothing I won’t reading in
the late edition of the Clarion. Lorna’s been found on waste land, ten miles
out of town, throat cut ear to ear, just like numbers one to three. This he
knows because he was pulled over by a cop he once knew in High School. Mase is
only a hundred yards or so from where she was discovered and the cop’s asking
him what he’s doing there and where he’s been.
“And that’s when you told him you were
with me.”
“Sorry, Jimmy.”
“So where were you? With a broad?”
“Why a broad?”
“Because that’s what you do on a
Saturday night. For goodness sake, Mase, tell the cops her name and the motel
you were at. Don’t even think of trying to protect her good name. Even assuming
she has one, it’s not worth the two thousand volts that could be coming your
way.”
“Can’t do that man, it’s Carla.”
“You’re kidding! Mase, do you have a
death wish? Whatever possessed you? She’s Tony Pescaro’s girl, big Tony,
enforcer for the Bandini family, but then you already know that.”
“Which is why I said I was with you.
I’m sorry, Jimmy, I had to say something, couldn’t tell him I’ve been on my own
all evening. How suspicious would that be? No, buddy, if you don’t back me up
I’ll be chief suspect, I know it. I need an alibi, and one that sticks.”
“Mase, this isn’t going to work. I was
behind the bar. If I saw you so did a hundred other guys but none of them did.
I’m sorry you’re in the shite but saying you
were here isn’t going to work.”
“No, Jimmy. Now listen to me, I’ve got
it all figured out. I wasn’t in the bar. You took a break, went back for a
smoke and saw me there trying to get cigarettes out of the machine, which as we
know is broke, so you got some from the storeroom and I paid you in cash.”
“And this was when?”
“Eight pm. According to the cop, Lorna
was found at nine, no more than an hour dead. If I was here at eight there’s no
way I could have done it.”
As alibi’s go it’s probably the worse
I’ve ever heard. Also, he’s only got the cop’s word that she died around
eight; initial estimates of death, even
by those qualified to give them, are often wide of the mark. But then it
matters not. He’s not needing an alibi; there’s no evidence against him. Mase’s
only problem is in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His fingerprints
and DNA are not at the crime scene and once it’s established that he was in Houston when murder
two took place he will soon be well down
their list of suspects. This I should be telling him but I don’t; he’s in a
panic and listening to no one but himself. So, it’s agreed: I saw him at eight,
an hour into my shift, sold him two packets of Ryman and he departed saying he
was going to burn some gas before driving home.
Alibi agreed, he heads back into the
glow of the main street lights and, after furtive glances left and right,
hurries off to wherever he’s left his car. I give it five before returning to
mine. The next day it turns out that Lorna wasn’t murdered at eight but two
hours earlier when Mase, pre date, was in a diner. He’s even found the receipt
in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s in the clear and, with the cops tight
lipped and short of anything resembling a lead, there’s nothing to be done but
speculate which of our Southern belles will be next. But not for long. The good
folk of Bylow have organised a meeting to which all the abled bodied men of the
town have been invited.
It’s a call to arms and within an hour
the Bylow Defence League not only comes into being but is given its marching
orders. We’re organised into eight platoons whose mission is to parade about
the town after dark with all the firepower we can muster. As none of the
murders have been in town it’s by no means clear what good this is going to do,
but everyone feels better for making the effort. Four guys who haven’t
volunteered are now under surveillance and followed everywhere they go by
another four guys who wear camouflage jackets that don’t exactly blend in to
the urban terrain. It’s a farce and when someone accidentality gets shot in the
butt the cops impose a curfew that’s probably not legal but at least keeps the
womenfolk indoors after dark.
This is bad news for the bar I run for
the Bandinis who use it to launder some of their ill-gotten gains. They aren’t
best pleased that we have to close at seven each evening but, as I say, what
can I do about it? They’re the ones with the power, and the ear of every
crooked politician in the county. Why don’t they get the curfew lifted? It
might take a bribe or two, but nothing that can’t be made good in a few weeks.
But they have a better idea which is probably why Tony Pescaro is at the head
of their delegation. He wastes no time in telling me what’s on his mind.
“No murderer, no murders,
no murders, no curfew,” he says with an indisputable logic that won’t
have escaped everyone else in town. As to the how bit
he hasn’t come here short of a plan, and whether I like it or not, I’m
in it.
“So, who do you think did it?” he asks.
“How should I know?” I say, feeling
like the room’s closing in on me.
“Maybe you don’t,” says Tony, “but you
will have a better idea than most. I mean you’re behind the bar serving guys
booze until they can hardly stand up. When that happens they get indiscreet,
let things slip they wish they hadn’t said, odd little things that a smart guy
like you will pick-up on. OK, so no one’s going to confess all, but someone,
sometime is going to say a little bit too much and this is the place where it
will happen – maybe has happened. So, who’s your money on, Jimmy, give me a
name, three names, more if you have them. I’m all ears.”
“Tony, I hear what you’re saying, guys
often bend my ear in the early hours. Sometimes their wife’s been giving them
grief, sometimes it’s the boss, sometimes it’s about money. I don’t want to hear
it, but I’m the barman, it’s my job to listen and let them get it off their
chest. I’ve heard it all, ten times over, but no one, absolutely no one, has
given me any reason to think they’re a killer.”
But Tony’s not taking no for an answer.
If I don’t know who it is, and he never thought I would, I can, at
least, point him in the direction of someone who fits the bill: someone with a
grudge against women, a wife beater, some weirdo who
don’t fit in and no one likes. All he needs are some names. His plan,
such as it is, is to abduct whoever I say and beat them within an inch of their
life. If they happen on the right guy it’s problem solved, he gets what’s
coming to him and everything gets back to normal.
“And if you don’t get the right man?”
“Then we let him loose to tell everyone
in town what these hooded men did to him, and why. The way I see it, by the
time we’re down to number three on your list the real murderer, if we don’t
have him, will be hot footing it out of town to some place far off where he’ll
be safe from us and free to start again. But that’s not our problem. Ours is to
get the curfew lifted, so let’s start with a few names.”
“I’ll need to think about it,” I say.
This is a chance to settle one or two scores but as Tony’s idea of a good beating
sometimes winds up being a homicide this is something I don’t want to get
involved in. But that’s supposing I have a choice?
Tony senses I’m less than keen. “Tell
you what, Jimmy, I’ve got a name of my own. We’ll put that top of the list
which means that for now I’ll only be needing two names.”
“Who’s your man?” I ask.
“A guy called Mason Brady. Perhaps you
know him, a friend perhaps?”
“Yeah, I know him. Wouldn’t call him a
friend. Just a guy who does odd jobs about the bar. Why do you think it’s him?”
“Information from someone who knows.
Something of a ladies man is our Mr Brady. Tries it on when the girls don’t
want it and then cuts up rough.”
I want to tell him that Mason isn’t
like that. He wouldn’t swot a fly, but if I make too much of it that won’t go
well, either for him or me. But why do they think it’s Mase? It don’t take long
to figure. He’s broken-up with Carla like I told him to and now she’s getting
back at him like the viper she is. If I’m to keep Mason safe I need to give
Tony exactly what he wants, three prime suspects, all of them far more likely
to be their man. So, that’s what I do: two ex-cons with a history of violence
and a bar room brawler who’s crazy on coke. I write down their names and say
where they can be found. Tony smiles and shows his appreciation by thumping me
on the back in a way that makes me think that sometimes he does this with a
butcher’s knife.
Have I done enough to protect a friend?
I’m not sure, but most of all I need to look after myself. It’s time to empty
the safe, pack a suitcase and drive far, far away to a place where I’m not
known and won’t be found. Perhaps this time I’ll be a George or Henry, a good
fit for a guy coming up to forty. Jimmy was good while it lasted, a likeable
sort of name for a regular guy that no one had a bad word for; a better name
than the two before, but they all served their purpose.
Tony never spoke a truer word when he
said his crew would scare-off the murderer, but even he will be surprised how
soon this is going to happen. So, it’s goodbye Bylow and hello some place else.
Maybe I’ll wind-up somewhere near you.
But don’t worry, America’s
a big place and I’ll be holding off for a while. Will you see me coming? I
doubt it, no one else has and no one ever will. It’s a whole new canvas and I’ll
be colouring it red. Ready or not I’m on my way!
Copywrite Richard Banks
