Authors: James Roy Daley
110
Switch didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
He stepped outside and walked along the driveway, away from the cottage, the blood, Elmer, and that goddamn hammer that came crashing down on that poor, unfortunate woman. He felt absolutely terrible.
What Elmer was doing was wrong. Not a little wrong, like telling mom your homework was finished when you had four pounds of it waiting in your room. It was really wrong; Charles Manson wrong; Ted Bundy wrong; John Wayne Gacy wrong.
Switch had no idea that Elmer was a lunatic. He always considered Elmer a friend, another misunderstood soul that rolled the dice and came up shy. He thought they were alike.
He was mistaken.
It was no secret that Switch had killed a man and went to prison, but it had been… well, different. Refined. Gentleman like. Not like this.
This was madness.
* * *
Richard Tokay was the man’s name, the man Switch had killed. And Richard Tokay got what he deserved, which was punched out and left in a parking lot. The only problem was, he suffered too much, timing was wrong, and Richard froze to death on a cold February night. This happened nine years ago.
Switch had just turned twenty-four; he had spent the night getting drunk with his buddies on the east side of town. Club Crow Bar, it was called. The bar showcased local bands for almost ten years before it finally went under, like so many venues before it. Switch was a musician back then, and his band Skulls & Daggers had played there many times.
At 2:30 a.m., Switch walked to his car with a guitar in one hand and a girl he almost considered his girlfriend in the other. The girl’s name was Carrie Holbrook; she was a real cutie. Red hair. Tight body. Soft voice. Full lips. Great personality. A woman like that––no wonder Switch was smitten.
Switch and Carrie had been drinking for hours. They were both loaded, and Switch shouldn’t have been heading towards his car with driving on his mind, but that was beside the point.
Richard Tokay, who enjoyed picking fights and was considered the town asshole, followed them outside. He asked for a ride. When Switch said no he took it personal. He called Carrie a whore and began suggesting that she had slept with half the men in town, including him and all of his friends. He also called her a band-slut. He said the only reason she liked Switch was because he played guitar. This didn’t sit well with Switch, who feared it was the truth. He had been harassed by Richard twice before, and this time he wasn’t having it. Words were spoken, followed by pushing and shoving. The guitar was dropped. Then came the fists. The fighting went back and forth violently. If a referee had been present he would have called it a draw. But then fate stepped in; Richard slipped on a patch of ice and went down hard. He banged his head off the bumper of a rusted-out Plymouth and Switch put the boots to him, kicking the man more times than he would like to admit.
After that, Switch and Carrie jumped into the car and drove back to Switch’s apartment worried about drinking and driving and rehashing the fight. And if memory served them correctly, five minutes after they arrived home Switch passed out on the couch, blowing what was otherwise, a night of drunken smutty sex.
The next day he realized that he left his guitar in the parking lot. It was a four thousand dollar Les Paul in a twenty-five dollar case. He never forgave himself for losing it.
Two days after that the police came calling. They arrived at Switch’s front door with cuffs in hand; Switch was arrested. After a short trial, the sentence was dropped from second-degree murder to manslaughter. But with the admittance of drinking and driving, plus a few other misdemeanors, Switch was sentenced to six years, which seemed high to both him and his parents, who not surprisingly, loved him very much throughout the ordeal and never lost faith in their boy. He ended up serving three and a half.
And that brings us here.
Yes, Switch had left a man out in the cold, and yes, the man had died. Richard Tokay turned into a human Popsicle the night Switch tried to beat the shit out of him. But no, Switch was not a killer. He didn’t have the killer’s mentality, the killer’s instinct. He always wanted to do right, and yes, he made a few mistakes along the way. His prison time, mixed with his upbringing (which wasn’t bad, but wasn’t illustrious or thick with wealth by any means) hardened him. Made him rough around the edges. But all that is neither here nor there. What it comes down to is this: Switch was in the wrong place at the wrong time on that cold February night, making the wrong moves under the wrong set of circumstances––nothing more, nothing less. He could have been someone you know. He could have been anybody. Which is why––as Switch stepped off Debra’s driveway and onto the wet and mucky dirt road––he released a sigh of relief.
The boys in blue had arrived, with guns aimed and ready.
Too bad one of them was itching to pull the trigger.
111
When Elmer finished his business with Debra he stepped outside with a beer in his hand. He walked across the large wooden patio that overlooked the beach. He rested his beer on the railing. He could still hear James shouting, cursing and swearing. He ignored it. Somewhere, beneath the sounds of James, Debra moaned. Elmer ignored that too.
The sun was up, shining bright. Picturesque ripples fluttered across the water. The rain had stopped falling and the clouds had moved on. But he could see them; Elmer could, like dark mud puddles in the sky, hanging above the lake at some mysterious and unknown distance. Perhaps the rain was still falling on the far side. He did not know, or care. But here, now, standing on the patio as the sun sparkled across the water, everything was beautiful.
A seagull squawked as it flew overhead. It landed on the sand, some fifteen feet away from where the waves made their final touchdown. On his left, Elmer could see something that looked like tiny mountains, if there were such a thing. After further inspection, he noticed that the mountains had been compromised. The hills were thin on trees and thick on ski runs. The ski runs sat empty and alone, waiting for the summer to end. If ever there was a more objectionable sight then ski runs in the summertime, Elmer did not know what it was.
On Elmer’s right, two cottages away, some asshole in a pink shirt and a bright blue thong was playing fetch with a poodle. The unfashionable man seemed to be having more fun with his dog then any man in his right mind would. Elmer wondered if the guy was into bestiality. He didn’t care, mind you, but the more Elmer watched the man, the more likely the bestiality scenario seemed.
Elmer took a drink of beer and thought; this fucking guy sleeps naked with his dog, guaranteed.
Whatever. The poodle loving ass-buffer did nothing to suggest that he had heard James screaming, which was pretty important, considering. But the man was close by. Close enough to hear something, and that made Elmer nervous––nervous enough to consider talking with the man, and getting a better understanding of the situation.
Elmer reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He had found it sitting next to his phone on the dining table, with every dollar tucked safely inside. Nothing could have surprised him more.
Remembering the moment that he found the wallet, Elmer smirked. I should thank James, he thought. Give him a reward or something.
Still smiling, he opened the wallet and pulled out a credit card. Then he dug into his pocket with fingers scrambling. A little baggy sat beneath some change. Inside the baggy was cocaine. With the wind all but gone he decided to bust out a line––outside. This was a dangerous move. One slight breeze and bye-bye, no more coke.
After drying part of the railing with his sleeve, he crushed the rock (and lost a point-one into the moist cracks of the wood) and shuffled the coke into a long line; he rolled a twenty-dollar bill into a straw and cranked the powder back. The coke burned his nose faintly and his eyes watered a tad, but over all, the coke was strong enough and smooth enough to be considered above average quality.
He dropped another rock on the railing, crushed it and shaped it and stuffed the baggy into his wallet. After that, he stuffed his wallet into his pocket. Then he turned away from the beach and the coke and noticed a small AM/FM radio sitting on a table beneath a large patio umbrella. The umbrella could easily cover six people. The radio, which was old and dirty, wasn’t plugged into the wall or anything. It worked on batteries or it didn’t work at all.
Elmer approached the radio, which was still wet from the rain. He clicked it on, assuming that it wouldn’t work. He was wrong. Somehow, the radio worked fine and when he heard The Who singing My Generation, he left it at that.
After knocking back the second line, Elmer looked through the broken patio door. Moore was inside, drinking a beer, sitting close to James and Debra, rubbing the fingers from his left hand over the knuckles on his right, while talking.
James was quiet now; his face drained of expression.
Debra’s head was slumped forward. She looked dead. Blood drained from her… stub?
To Elmer’s surprise, the bottom part of Debra’s leg had come free, and sat on the floor beneath her. How is that possible? Elmer wondered. Then he looked at Moore––and at his blood soaked hands and legs.
That crazy son-of-a-bitch must have pulled her leg off after I walked away, Elmer thought. Good man, that Moore, crazy, but a good man indeed.
112
“
Put your hands on your head.” Officer Scriber said with a calm, tranquil voice. “Do it slow, do it quiet and don’t make a sound. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Switch stopped walking. His jaw unhinged.
“
Listen,” he said.
“
You shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” The other officer said, loudly. This was Officer Layton, the rookie cop that nobody wanted to be partnered with; the rookie cop that was a bully in high school with a history of fighting, and wouldn’t have been on the force at all––if not for some heavy financial contributions within the small town political world; the rookie cop that was inching to pull the trigger.
Officer Scriber, curbing the urge to tell Layton to shut-up, closed his eyes briefly. It was something he was going to do, sooner or later, because––like any man with half a brain––he hated David Layton. He hated him enough to ask for a new partner, or a transfer, or seriously consider quitting the force, or maybe––just maybe––accidentally putting a bullet in David Layton’s head.
Scriber huffed.
No. He would never do that. He would never sink a bullet into another person, not unless he had to. And even if Scriber could get away with it––which he couldn’t––it would still never happen. Scriber was a good man, a family man with spiritual leanings. He was a man with morals, ethics and good-natured principles. And no matter how much he disliked his partner he would never cross the line. Not like that. Not in a month of Sundays, as his mother sometimes said.
“
Shhh.” Scriber said, looking in his partner’s direction with frustration brewing. “Everyone, just relax a little. There’s no reason for any of us to get excited. Now sir, I’ve already asked you nicely, and I’ll ask you again. Please put you hands on your head, and do it slowly. I don’t want any trouble. I’d like to do this by the book.”
Switch slowly held his hands up, so both officers could see them. While doing this, he looked past the two men and the police cruiser. The road was nearly empty. Their only company was a squirrel.
With his fingers wide, he raised his hands to his head.
“
I don’t want any trouble,” Switch said. “And I won’t give you any trouble. But I didn’t do anything wrong here, so please take it easy on me. I’m the one that phoned the police.” At this point, Switch realized he had an eightball of coke in his front pocket. His eyes shifted in a guilty sort of way. He felt his temperature rise and his composure slip.
Being a veteran cop, and a good cop, Scriber caught it.
Layton didn’t.
“
Is everything okay sir?” Scriber asked.
Switch quickly accepted the fact that he was going to get busted on possession. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but considering what he had witnessed, it seemed like no big deal.
“
Yes,” he said. “Everything is fine. I don’t want any trouble. In fact, I’d like to help you gentlemen out, if I can.”
Officer David Layton jumped up a foot, thrusting his gun in Switch’s face. “Do you have any weapons on your person, sir?” Again, his voice was loud and inappropriate.
“
No officer.” Switch said, flinching back a step. “I don’t.”
Scriber was becoming furious. “Hey Layton, do you mind keeping it down a bit or do you want to yell a little louder, maybe fire off a few warning shots?”
“
Very funny.”
“
I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to be quiet.”
“
I just want this dickhead to know who’s in charge here, that’s all.”
“
Don’t worry,” Switch said. “I know who’s in charge. You are.”
“
Fuckin’ A I am. Now turn your ass around, get on your knees and keep your mouth shut.”
“
It’s pretty muddy.”
“
I don’t give a flying rat-fuck if it’s muddy. Turn around and get on your knees.”