“No way, man.”
“So it got out of hand, and now she’s dead. That’s an accident. You didn’t mean to kill her, did you? Just rough her up a little, right?”
“It was a fucking accident. It happened the way I said it. That’s the truth.”
“And what about Hoagy? I thought you loved that animal.” I nodded toward the dog. The top of his skull was caved in, the hair around it matted with mud and congealed blood. “You must have done that with a hammer.”
“Yeah. It hurt me to do it. But I didn’t have a choice. Every time I let him off the leash, he scratched at the place Maude was, like he was trying to dig her up. He wanted to be with her, so I gave him his wish.” He looked up at me with pleading eyes. “Listen, I know I’ve done wrong, but this ain’t the way to deal with it. Why don’t we just call the police? I’ll tell them everything.”
“I can’t do that. It wouldn’t really make things right for Maude, would it? You’d just repeat your sad little story, and get a few months for interfering with a dead body. But Maude’s gone forever. So is Hoagy.”
“But I didn’t mean to kill her. You know how it is. We had a fight — pushing and shoving. But then she fell. It was an accident, I swear.”
Fear makes people run off at the mouth. When talk’s the only thing left, they’ll say anything to unlock the leg-hole trap they’re in.
“So why don’t we ask Maude?” I said. “Look at her.”
He did; she didn’t look good. A worm was climbing out of her T-shirt. Under the dirt, insect bites covered her skin, which was washed out and ready to start peeling. Ace was sobering up.
I opened a bottle of vodka and poured half of it down his throat. He chugged it like he was proving something at a frat party. Then I went over to the counter, took a large pot from under the sink, and filled it with canola oil. I set it on the stove top, but didn’t put the heat on. I started peeling some potatoes I had brought over. Ace had his back to me, but I could hear him straining to see what I was doing.
“Don’t look at me, Ace, look at Maude,” I said as I peeled. “Why don’t you guys chat a bit while I prepare dinner?”
“Please don’t do this. I admit it. It was my fault. I killed her. Please, for the love of God.”
“Talk to Maude, Ace. I’m busy with dinner. You like french fries, don’t you?”
He was quiet for a while, then I heard him say, “Maude, you wouldn’t want this, would you? Not like this. Maude, tell him.”
Maude didn’t say a word. After an hour in the small cabin, she was beginning to smell pretty bad.
“I’m sorry, Maude. We had some good times together, didn’t we?”
I chopped the potatoes into thick wedges and left them on the counter. “Another drink, Ace?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything. I picked up the vodka bottle and slowly poured the rest of it into his mouth. I held his chin to make sure it all went down the right way. I poured myself a Scotch and sat on the couch.
Ace was crying now, sobbing like a child.
“What’s the matter, pal?”
He didn’t answer.
Some people would say I was toying with him, and maybe I was. It takes time for alcohol to get into your bloodstream. I had to fill the time. What’s wrong with being polite? What’s wrong with trying to make someone’s last experience civilized? I was doing what felt right.
Ace hadn’t given up hope, and I didn’t need to take that away from him. There’s a point when people finally understand the inevitable, when they realize there’s no way out. Most people never get there — they refuse to cross the line. They keep pleading, hoping and praying for a miracle to happen. And it never does. Like most people, Ace believed what he hoped for.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to kill her, honestly. It was an accident. It ain’t right to do this.”
“Oh. I thought that you were crying for Maude.”
“I’m crying for her too. If I could do things over, I would.”
“Another drink would help you, Ace.” I opened the second bottle of vodka and began pouring it down his throat. He struggled against it. It took a long time for the second bottle to go down.
He was stronger than I thought, but eventually his head lolled around and his eyes lost focus. Then he passed out. He was lucky he wouldn’t have to deal with the hangover in the morning.
I went to the stove and put the heat under the oil. I left the potatoes on the counter. The cottage was a scene of domesticity ruined by tragedy, both Ace and Maude asleep while waiting for the oil to heat up. I took the duct tape off Ace and carried him to the couch. I left the cabin and waited at the edge of the woods.
Through the window, I could see the pot sitting on the stove. After a few minutes there were small whiffs of smoke, and there was no detector to wake them up. I had the battery in my pocket. The smoke darkened, and then an explosion of flames erupted out of the pot. In seconds, the flames took hold of the wall behind the stove and moved through the kitchen like something alive. A little while later I saw little puffs of smoke escape from under the roof. I watched the couch burst into flames, and with it, Ace disappeared into the smoke and fire. His face was the last thing I saw, the skin blistered and peeling. He didn’t suffer. The fumes would have gotten him before the flames.
I stood watching at the edge of the trees, feeling better than I had in a long time. I realized then that I had a future. Maude was dead because I held back, didn’t get involved. Well, that was going to change. I’ve got skills. I just need to use them properly.
Poppa
by Robert Pobi
Little Burgundy
It was a shouldn’t-be-there kind of noise that took Jimmy from a dead sleep to the edge of his mattress with a pistol in his fist — all in a single beat of his heart. He froze in the dark and cocked his head to one side, pointing his attention to the world beyond the bedroom. After a few breaths he heard it again — a chair sliding on the floor in the kitchen. Followed by a cupboard door closing. A drawer sliding open. The tap coming on.
Jimmy checked the clock — a little past three a.m. It wasn’t a hit; hit men didn’t drag chairs around and wash their hands in the middle of the night. Which narrowed the possibilities to a home invasion or Iggy. And since Iggy at this time of night meant bad news, Jimmy would have preferred a home invasion; he hadn’t shot anyone in a while.
Christie woke up as the lights went on out in the apartment. “Jesus, Jimmy. Don’t you ever get any privacy?”
He put his hand on her ass, gave it a squeeze, and smiled into the dark. “Easter’s usually pretty quiet.” He got up, put on a robe, and left the bedroom with the big automatic still in his hand. Just in case, like Poppa would say.
Iggy was at the other side of the apartment, at the kitchen counter. He was going through the preflight operation of adjusting knobs and wiping down stainless steel on the espresso machine. Iggy was a clumsy-looking motherfucker, but he was a surgeon when it came to making coffee. And hurting people. The chrome contraption was burping and coughing and farting.
Jimmy flipped on the rest of the light switches, bathing the two-thousand-square-foot living room in incandescent whites. He crossed the space and Iggy stopped fiddling with the machine and dried his hands on a towel. “Sorry for showing up like this, Jim.”
Jimmy waved it away. “I can sleep because I pay you not to.” He stepped up out of the living room and put the big autoloader down on the granite. He cinched the belt on his silk robe a little tighter and dropped onto one of the barstools flanking the island. “What’s going on?”