Derringer award winner DAVID WHITE is an 8th Grade English teacher. His stories have been published in Thrilling Detective, Handheld Crime, Hardluck Stories, Shred Of Evidence, Crime Spree and SHOTS UK. He currently resides in New Jersey.

Chapter 1

I’ve killed three men. One the police know about; two that I’ve kept to myself. For the fourth time in three months, I had blood on my hands, and all the images of previous deaths were swirling back to me, even as I was panicking.

This time, however, it wasn’t me doing the killing. I was in the middle of Easton Ave, trying to pump life back into a man I used to drink with for hours on end.

He was bleeding from the nose and mouth. He wasn’t breathing. His ribs crunched with the compress of my hands on his chest.

I couldn’t hear the ambulances and Robert Wood Johnson was right down the street.

I yelled again, "Someone call 911!"

But I knew it was too late, and Gerry was gone. Dead bodies look different from live ones. I should know. Like I said, I’ve killed three men.

****

The Olde Towne Tavern was pretty crowded for a late afternoon Monday. Gerry was sitting next to me, just bought me a Heineken. He had his cup of coffee, and the breath to go with it.

We were celebrating.

"Accepted, huh? Gonna be a freshman at twenty-seven years old?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Whatever. It’s still old to go to college. But I’m proud of ya. Can’t keep this private eye stuff up all your life."

"Hey, I still have to pay tuition somehow." Not that I was getting many cases lately. When your face is plastered all over the news and most of it isn’t good, the clients aren’t exactly knocking down your doors.

I decided to come to the Tavern for lunch today after getting my mail. I pulled out one of those big envelopes that high school seniors look for. Opening it up, I found a letter that began, "Dear Mr. Donne, We are pleased to announce your acceptance to Rutgers University. . ." Best news I’d had in two months.

I drank my beer as Gerry went on. Eventually, my burger would show, I could eat and get out of here. Gerry’s a nice guy, but kind of grating when he starts to get a rant on.

"Never went to college myself. Had a war to fight. Fucking Korea."

"I remember, Gerry."

Gerry talked about two things. Korea and his former life as an actor. Behind me two regulars were exchanging money over the bet they had: which would he talk about first?

"So, tell me about this college thing. What are you going to do? When are you going to start?"

I finished my beer, waited for Artie to bring me my burger.

"Probably start next fall. In September, once I get all of the tests out of the way."

"Tests?"

"Yeah, you have to take an entrance exam. See what classes you can take?"

"Then what? You take your classes? Get a B.S. Ha! Get a B.S in b.s." He slapped himself on the leg, let out a nice chuckle.

"Probably be an English major."

"Yeah? How’s that going to help you? What can you do with an English degree?"

"We’ll see."

He plunked ten bucks on the bar as Artie finally brought me my burger.

"Well, Jackson," Gerry said, "I best be going. Gotta get home."

"All right, Gerry."

The door swung open behind me and he was gone. I poured some ketchup on my burger, as Artie flipped a switch behind the bar. The Stones popped on over the speakers: "Beast of Burden."

"That guy doesn’t shut up. Been coming here since I bought the place. Doesn’t shut up," Artie said.

I took a bite of my burger.

At first, I hardly noticed it. In New Jersey, especially a busy town like New Brunswick, there is a lot of traffic and brakes squeal all the time. So I chewed and swallowed, listening to the Stones, until I heard the crunch. Like metal hitting something hard. Artie and I made eye contact just before the screaming started.

With that, I dropped the burger, bolted out the door.

It was a warm day for mid-April, most people walking around in t-shirts and jeans. The sun warmed my skin. It shined in my eyes as I made the adjustment from the darkness of the bar to the bright afternoon. People were standing on the sidewalk, staring. A young co-ed was screaming. No one was moving.

In the middle of the road Gerry lay in a prone position. Blood streaked down his face. His eyes were closed and from where I was, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing Traffic had stopped in Gerry’s direction, one car about twenty feet from him. It didn’t have a dent in it.

"He drove off. I can’t believe the guy just drove off," someone was saying. Hit and run.

I raced into the street, my knees scraping on the asphalt as I knelt next to Gerry.

"Someone call 911!" I yelled.

It had been too long since I’d trained in CPR. Too long since I was a cop, too long since I’d had to do anything remotely like this. I’d been surrounded with too much death over the past few months, and not enough ways to save lives. I hoped muscle memory would kick in.

Pressing my fingers to Gerry’s neck, I tried for a pulse. I didn’t feel anything. I turned my head, put my ear to his nose and mouth. No breathing either. Gerry was in trouble.

I opened his mouth, shut his nose and breathed twice into him. His blood smeared against my cheeks, and something told me I was doing it wrong. I didn’t care. His chest went up and then let the air out. No other reaction.

Down Easton Ave, horns were honking. The sun was beating on my neck, but it wasn’t the reason I was sweating.

I put both my hands on his chest and pumped five times. I didn’t know if the number was right. I didn’t know if anything was right. I was going on instinct.

"Someone call 911!" I screamed so loud, I thought my vocal cords would tear.

One more time I breathed into his mouth.

I finally heard the sirens, the sound of ambulances, police and fire. Someone must have called 911. When you call they send everybody.

I pounded on Gerry’s chest, until I felt someone wrap around my arm and tug at me. I whirled and saw Artie staring at me.

"Let it be, man," he said.

I tried to turn back to Gerry. Artie pulled harder.

"Let it be."

I let him tug my arm, and I finally got to my feet. Gerry lay prone on the ground. Not moving. I wasn’t going to be able to help him anymore.

An ambulance swung around toward us off Somerset. Its siren was louder than the screech of its tires.

As the EMS workers rushed to Gerry, all I could say was, "Fuck."

Chapter 2

 

After about ten minutes, Artie couldn’t take it anymore. He went back inside the bar, mumbling something about having customers to serve. Liar. They were all standing outside with me, pints in hand, watching the cops and EMS work. Not much talking going on, but the bet they’d had before wasn’t a point of conversation. In fact, the only sounds were the whispering of the cops asking witnesses questions.

I watched the EMS guys. They were doing what I had been doing, but it didn’t look like anything was working for them, either. One of them, a guy with a goatee and shaved head was just watching. The other, a woman with a short bowl cut hair-do and no makeup, was pumping his chest. They were both shaking their heads. Finally, the bald guy and the driver got the stretcher, as the woman kept pumping. She backed away and they lifted Gerry up. Checked his pulse one more time. Wheeled him into the ambulance, which pulled away without sirens. Gerry’s blood still stained the street.

I’ve read somewhere that EMS workers can’t pronounce someone dead on the spot. They have to do everything they can to keep the patient alive. Even if that person is dead they have to put on the act. From what I was watching, these guys didn’t try too hard.

Down the street, two cops were talking to a crying woman. The smaller cop had one of those small, spiral notebooks out and was taking notes in blue pencil. The taller cop was nodding as the woman spoke, probably doing his best to be understanding through all her blubbering. Once the beat cops determined this was hit and run, the plainclothes detectives would show up. If they heard I was here, they’d definitely want to talk to me. I turned to one of the regulars and told him I’d be inside when the cops got down to this area for questioning.

"Yeah," he said, taking a sip from his glass. "You might want to wash your face too.Look like a goddamn vampire."

I hit the bathroom. Artie did his best to keep it clean but it still smelt like someone had puked. The walls were pale yellow, the toilet was white, but chipped. The sink only ran cold water, and the mirror was cracked. I looked at the blood congealing on my face and hands and thought even if I washed it off, I’d probably still feel its mark. I scrubbed harder than I had in a while. Eventually I got clean again.

Back out in the bar, Artie had changed the music. The Band’s "The Weight" was playing, while he scrubbed the bar. I wondered if he felt the same way about the bar: if he cleaned it then all the traces of Gerry would be gone. Maybe for a few minutes this wouldn’t have happened.

"I love this song," he said, as I took a stool across from him at the bar. He got me another bottle of Heineken, popped the top, and put it in front of me.

I took a sip, listened to the music. I hadn’t heard the song in years. Let the laid back rhythm sink in. I agreed. "Good song."

We listened to it play out. I finished my beer. Artie got me another, and I let it sit. Something that sounded like Lou Reed came up next. I wanted to ask who it was, what the title of the song was, something to delay the inevitable. But Artie didn’t wait.

"So, what do you think?"

I picked up the beer, looked at it. Put it back down. "About the song?"

"No."

"Oh," I said. "It didn’t look good."

He shook his head. "Haven’t seen anything like that since ‘Nam."

I took the first sip of my fourth beer of the day. It wasn’t even five o’clock.

This was the worst part. Waiting for the news you prayed wasn’t going to come, but knew was inevitable. Most people try to talk around it, sit with a knot in their stomachs and pray. I hated that. Instead, I laid it all out on the table.

"He’s not going to make it. He wasn’t breathing. I don’t think EMS got him to start. He’s dead."

"You don’t know that for—" Artie made eye contact with me. "Did the cops find the car?"

My beer was half gone, and my stomach started to feel a bit light. I wished I had gotten a chance to eat the burger. "I don’t know. I don’t think so."

This time it was Artie’s turn to put it out for all to hear. "Do you think it was an accident?"
Finished off the beer. "I don’t know."

Truth was, I didn’t know. Gerry did have some enemies. Six months ago, the manager of a theater Gerry used to act at paid his landlord to try and evict him. That way she could drum up some press about starving actors to bring in theater goers who felt bad. I stepped in and talked to her and the landlord. When I was done, he kept his home. Last I heard, she’d sold the theater, moved out of state.

Artie put another Heineken in front of me. I didn’t touch it.

He said, "Are you going to look into it?"

"The police will." Sweat dripped off the beer bottle onto the bar. "They’re already out there asking questions."

"The cops’ll look at is as a hit and run accident. If they find the car, good for them, they’ll talk to whoever did it. Maybe put some sort of manslaughter charge on it."

"Maybe it is just manslaughter."

The beer looked lonely just sitting there. Artie had taken the empties away. The one green bottle made the bar look unprofessional and not symmetrical. I picked it up. Took a swig. It was still cold, tasted bitter going down. For the fifth, it should have been easier to drink.

Artie said, "If it is, I want to find out from you. And if it’s not, I’d like you to take care of that."

"Are you trying to hire me?"

"That’s what it sounds like." He mopped the sweat off the bar.

The rest of the beer went down a bit easier. I had a full buzz going on now.

"The cops can handle it. I don’t want to do this. I want to focus on getting this college shit straightened out."

"You said you’d have to pay your way somehow."

"I can do some insurance work. They’re still calling me."

I spun the empty bottle on the bar. Artie caught it, took it away.

The bar door swung open, one of the regulars stuck his head in. "Cops are gonna be in to ask questions in a few, guys. Okay?"

Artie and I both nodded.

Artie looked at me, said, "I want you to work on this, Jackson."

"Why do you care about this, at all?"

"Why are you trying to act like you don’t care? You know Gerry came in here every day. Even after he stopped drinking. Even after his son died. He has no one else. We’re as close to family as he’s going to get. I think we owe it to him."

I couldn’t argue with that. "All right. I’ll look into it. But first, get me another beer."

Artie reached behind the bar. "I want to pay your standard rate. Draw up a contract and everything."

"Fine," I said, not willing to argue anymore.

Behind us, the door swung open. As I looked up two plainclothes cops walked in.

Copyright© 2006 David White