A Dead Issue (5 page)

I released his arm and stared into his eyes, daring him to try to disarm me with that smile of his. When he didn't, I continued, “DiNuccio came through and got me thinking a whole lot of bad things.”

Dusty said nothing, waiting for me to continue.

“The police are going to talk to us. We need to get our story straight.”

“Easy. We just leave out the part about going back for your wallet.”

“Not easy. We're going to be in the spotlight . . . Stanley.”

I backed off enough for him to straighten up. He hitched his shoulders, working the kinks out of his clothes and muscles.

“Yeah, OK,” he said. “You're right.”

We stood silently as he gathered his thoughts and we relaxed a little.

“Maybe we should do this over a beer,” he suggested.

“We'll have a beer later. But right now—are you going around as Stanley or Dusty Bates?

“Dusty Bates,” he said without hesitation. “Like I said, that's the first time I used Stanley Kubrick.”

“Stanley Kubrick! Are you nuts?”

Dusty seemed confused by my anger.

“You showed a cop a fake license with Stanley Kubrick on it.”

“Well, yeah. That didn't go like I thought. He was supposed to look at it and give me the stink eye. Then I smile and say no relation. Puts everyone at ease. Plus, I'm not lying.” He gave me a wink and a grin. “What's the big deal?”

I took a deep breath. “I'll tell you the big deal,” I began.
“The police are going to be looking for witnesses—people who saw Jonah before he was killed—”

“Killed!” Dusty squealed. “We didn't kill nobody.”

“It's called felony homicide,” I said and stopped. I felt the presence of someone very near.

“Hey! There's Waldo!”

In a few steps, Cash was on us. He circled around once, eyeing us—letting us know he was in control, like a shark before attacking. There was no way he didn't hear Dusty's squealing voice. The word
killed
was still echoing around the parking lot.

“And look here, we have the Prince of Darkness, too,” he continued. His teeth lit up in an evil smile. “What's this, a meeting of the mindless?”

“Tupperware party,” I said. “You weren't invited.”

The smile dropped from his face, and his eyes narrowed with menace. He looked us both up and down for a moment and the smile came back, but it was forced.

“No it isn't,” he said as if we were kidding with him. “It's a stockholders meeting is what it is.” He paused. “You were just talking about making a killing.”

The word “killing” sent a spike of fear coursing through me, leaving in its wake a wave of prickling skin. I felt weak. Cash was telling us he had heard our conversation, or a least the word killed, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to put things together when the morning papers arrived with the headline “Local farmer found dead.” Cash circled around like he smelled blood. I knew he'd keep sniffing until he found the source. In the meantime, he seemed determined to torture me and make me squirm—and he was enjoying it.

“Actually, we're going out for a few,” Dusty said with an easy smile. “Want to join us?”

The offer sounded so sincere that Cash stopped pacing and his face drained of hostility. He appeared to be momentarily stunned. I glared at Dusty. I didn't need Cash sitting in on our alibi discussion.

“Couple of pitchers—iced mugs,” Dusty added and threw me a quick glance. “Mark's buying the first round.”

Cash broke into a cautious smile, suspecting that Dusty was toying with him.

“Seriously,” Dusty continued. “Have a real hamburger for a change. Wash it down with a cold one.”

Cash softened, pursed his lips as if considering it.

“We owe you . . . for punching us in,” he pressed on.

His shoulders relaxed.

“Frosted mugs, French fries—maybe some wings.”

Cash grinned. He was hooked.

“I'm driving,” Dusty said and smiled.

“Where we going?” Cash asked.

“Miller's,” Dusty said casually, and I could see Cash throwing it into reverse.

“Miller's,” he said and paused. “Miller's? Down on 611? Miller's. Karaoke Tuesday, open mike on Thursday, and open season on blacks twenty-four seven. That Miller's?”

Dusty looked uncomfortable for a moment. “It ain't that bad.”

“Not bad if you're wearing a sheet with eyeholes.” Cash did an about face and marched away.

I watched as he climbed into his GTO. Dusty looked over at me and flicked his eyebrows once—rings dancing. “Takes care of that,” he said, breaking into a broad grin.

CHAPTER 9

Dusty followed me back to my place and I parked my car and jumped in with him. Then we headed out to Miller's old brick
tavern on Route 611. Dusty and I entered and everyone turned to watch us come in. Conversation died momentarily as we moved to a booth in the far corner of the bar. The sound level rose steadily as we sat, and a small group of farmers laughed at something one of them said.

A waitress brought us a pitcher, and when she left, I drained half a mug. Dusty did the same and stared at me, frowning.

“Tell me about that felony murder thing,” he said at last.

I looked around to be sure no one was near enough. “Felony homicide,” I said, leaning in. “It's when someone dies during a crime. Last year in Harrisburg, a bank robber waved a gun around and one of the tellers had a heart attack. He died the next day. The robber was convicted of felony homicide—same as if he shot him.”

“Christ,” Dusty said with a shake of his head. “But that's not the same. We were just after your wallet.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “We were there. He was shooting at us. Anything we say is going to look like we're covering our asses.” I paused long enough to pour two more beers.

“It's your turn,” I said. “Tell me about Stanley,” I peered at him from over the rim of my mug.

“Stanley?” he asked.

“You showed DiNuccio a license with the name Stanley Kubrick. As stupid as he is, he remembered—called you Stanley in the drive-thru.”

Dusty sipped at his beer while he thought. His eyes pinched shut, and I knew that he had come to the realization that his fake name would throw up a red flag.

“Christ, he ran my name.”

I nodded, emphasizing the significance of that detail.

“It was a minor traffic stop. A warning.” Dusty continued. “Maybe they won't make a connection. Maybe he didn't even call it in if he was just busting your balls.”

“You can't count on that. Even if there's no record, DiNuccio might piece it together on his own if they start talking about my brother, Dusty. That's when the thirty watt bulb goes on—
who's Dusty?
I want you to think real hard. Do you have a warrant—anywhere? I got to know.”

Dusty stared blankly at me.

“I don't know. I might be clean.”

“Let me lay it out for you, Dusty. They're going to be looking at us. They'll run background checks on us. If you have a warrant, DiNuccio starts to wonder why they didn't find one on his check, and Stanley Kubrick raises his ugly head. Then they'll look at us real hard. If there's no warrant out, we might slide by. But if you bolt, the game's over. It's like admitting you were there. So I have to know—are you going to run and leave me holding the bag, or are we going to ride this out together?”

The door opened. Once again, the room grew quiet and all heads swung toward the two men who entered. The taller one, in a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, gestured to the bartender to pour him a shot as he approached the bar. The shorter one followed close behind, shaking his head. Both appeared to be distressed. One man stepped away from the bar, making room for them and everyone watched as they each tossed back a shot of bourbon.

The tall one wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and his watery blue eyes fell on each man in the room. He swallowed once and announced, “Jonah's dead!”

CHAPTER 10

I knew in an instant that this was Shotgun and his sidekick, Billy, fresh from the farm. He looked around again, shaking his head in disbelief. “He's dead and the place is shot all to hell.”

He watched as the bartender poured refills.

“We found him on the floor,” added his friend—the short one, Billy.

There were murmurs and exclamations. Someone said, “What happened?” while the men tossed back another shot.

Dusty and I stared at each other, frozen. On one hand, I couldn't believe the luck that placed us within earshot of the tale that was about to unfold—all the details of the events that transpired after we made our escape. On the other, I also feared discovery when the story got around to the two guys who worked for Jonah—both medium build, one blond and clean-cut, the other dark and looking like he belonged to a cult—like those two guys sitting in that booth over there.

“We stopped to pick up Jonah. It must have just happened,” Shotgun said. “We were coming here to eat and have a few. Jonah didn't come out as we pulled up, so we went to the door and knocked,”

“When he didn't answer I tried the door,” Billy said, “but it was locked.”

“We went around to the front and peeked in through the window and, son-of-a-bitch! He was sprawled out on the floor!”

“I kicked the door in,” Billy added with a touch of pride in his voice.

“We ran up to him, but it was too late. He was already dead.”

I slid over to the end of the bench getting ready to stand up. Dusty warned me off with a glaring look, demanding that I stay put—and for the moment, I did.

“That's when I noticed,” Billy continued. “The whole damn place was shot to hell. Bullet holes everywhere. You could still smell gun smoke. We figured he was shot and whoever did it might still be around.” He paused to look around and nodded toward Shotgun. “Ray here ran to get his shotgun and I followed. Somehow I didn't quite feel like being alone,” he added quietly.

“I ran out the back door,” Ray said and paused to look at Billy. “I ran right out the back door—and I didn't stop to unlock it.”

“You must have,” Billy said.

This appeared to be an ongoing point of contention. I made another move to stand up, and Dusty placed a hand on my forearm. I twisted loose and slid out of the seat.

“Jonah's dead?” I asked incredulously. The men at the bar turned and gave me a who-the-hell-are-you look. “We work for Jonah,” I explained. “We were there this afternoon!”

Ray surveyed me cautiously. “You must be Mark.” He extended a hand. It was dry, rough, powerful.

“Yeah,” he continued, “He's gone.” He fell silent and watched as Dusty crawled awkwardly out of the booth.

“This is Dusty,” I explained. “We both worked for Jonah.”

Ray did not offer his hand, but pointed a stubby finger at two places on the bar where the bartender was supposed to place shot glasses. Without comment, the bartender complied. Everyone watched as we tossed down the whiskey. It burned a trail down to my stomach where it left a bed of embers.

“I can't believe it,” I said and there was a murmur of assent.

Billy tossed another one down. “Christ, they took us down to the police station to question us all night.”

“Separately,” Ray noted and paused to give his comment special meaning. “I thought they were going to arrest me. They went over the same things again and again. Christ!”

Dusty caught my eye and coughed before asking, “Did you say he was shot?”

There was a slight hesitation as if no knew how to talk to a guy with plugs in his earlobes.

“Well . . . no, Jonah wasn't shot,” Ray explained and turned to the group. “That's just it. There was bullet holes everywhere, but not in Jonah. They checked. I was right there.”

“Then how did he die?” I asked because it seemed like the next logical question.

“Don't know,” said Billy. “They said they'd have to wait for the coroner's report. Maybe he had a heart attack with all that shooting going on.”

“What was he shooting at?” asked Dusty, and I glared at him as he waited for an answer, and he had to wait for several seconds until he got it, because Billy and Ray stared at him blankly.

“Who said he was shooting?” Billy asked and then paused, his brow knitted in thought.

“Yeah,” Ray continued. “Somebody was in Jonah's house and shot the place all to hell—like they were pissed at his furniture. Or maybe they were pissed at Jonah and wanted to scare him—they sure as hell weren't trying to shoot him. How could you miss in a room like that with all them bullets flying around?”

“Maybe Jonah was the one shooting,” Billy said. “It would explain a whole lot.”

Dusty threw me a glance that was supposed to be subtle but looked to me like a neon arrow flashing down at us.

“It would explain why nobody got shot,” Billy continued. “Without his glasses, Jonah couldn't hit his own barn standing in the hay loft.”

One man grunted a sad little laugh. Another shook his head. I remembered Jonah squinting in pain or blindness as he hunted down sounds—tracking us with his pistol.

“He wasn't wearing glasses?” I asked.

“The cops found them on the stairway,” Billy said and his face screwed up like he was thinking hard.

“Anyway,” said Ray. “If Jonah was shooting at someone, no way in hell was he going to hit anything—except furniture.”

Billy's eyes widened and he stepped back open mouthed. The expression on his face was one of alarm like
he suddenly realized that he left his dog locked in a car on a hot day.

“Jesus, Ray! I just thought of something—the door!”

“What? You just realized it wasn't locked?”