Authors: Day Rusk
The lighting was low which was probably for the best; one didn’t always like to see the various diseases and filth they were sitting in if they hoped to enjoy their beer; hopefully in a clean glass (
weren’t tough guys supposed to drink out of dirty glasses, like in the old-time Westerns?
). The furniture, even in the dark, was dated and worn; he could only imagine what it looked like in the mornings with all the lights on and possibly some sunlight sneaking in through the cracks that had formed in the tinted windows. The place obviously catered to the city’s tough guys, so it made sense the decor was early caveman; and the way Leslie figured it, like the cavemen had discovered, a good fire would really help fix a lot, just so long as the firemen let Duffy’s burn to the ground. There were license plates from various states decorating the walls, along with Harley-Davidson signs (
was that mandatory in places like this?
), some boxing photos, and even a little erotica, although that was being generous in definition. Leslie firmly believed there was a difference between erotica and pornography, and Duffy’s was definitely leaning more towards the pornographic. Of course based on the quality of the female customers he was observing, he imagined not a one of them voiced their displeasure with such vulgar pictures on the wall. Much like the men, there were a lot of ladies who looked like they were desperately trying to chase lost youth.
How sad it must be,
thought Leslie,
to be in that position with your latest conquest and staring down at a faded tramp stamp?
The bar, which wasn’t all that big, was packed; the waitress who served him his beer looked a little past her due date, as were the other two waitresses taking care of customers. It looked like waitressing at Duffy’s was where old strippers went to die.
Leslie set up shop in a corner booth; he had a great view of the bar, where Harry was busy talking up one of the bar’s younger female patrons, a woman who was rail thin, and Leslie guessed looked a lot older than she really was, no doubt due to drug use. She was all over Harry, and only left his side after Leslie noticed him slipping her something that made her rush off to the bathroom like a kid on Christmas morning. She returned from the bathroom a little calmer and continued to fawn over Harry.
Nursing his beer in the corner, Leslie couldn’t help wondering about Harry. Decades had passed since he’d seen him. He knew he wasn’t the type of man who was afraid to get his hands dirty. Over those years, as their lives went in different directions, who knew what crimes Harry had committed; what deeds he had performed to please his overlord – Morgan Neil? Harry had probably joined ranks with Morgan because he was looking for a better life. It was a way to make money; he imagined lots of money.
If that was so, why was he here?
If he had embraced the criminal life and had done so to live a better one, have the finer things in life, what the hell was he doing here in this shithole with the scum of the scum? If this is where he came to enjoy himself and look for companionship, he could have done that without resorting to the life of crime he’d embraced. Surely, standing or sitting amongst him was also a wealth of petty criminals; lowlifes who hadn’t resorted to murder, but were still here – his social peers.
It was insane to think that anyone would risk losing their freedom, committing the kind of crimes Harry did, just to end up at a place like Duffy’s.
Leslie ordered another beer off his long-suffering waitress and continued to take in the atmosphere. If he stood out, no one was saying anything or approaching him. A few ladies had tried to sit down and engage him in conversation, but he had quickly waved them away. Harry was at the bar with his skinny girl and a couple of other goons, all of them enjoying a beer and laughing it up. Harry was oblivious to the danger that lurked nearby.
Why shouldn’t he be?
thought Leslie as he considered the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket.
He probably thinks he’s the most dangerous man in the place. The Alpha Dog, so to speak.
Leslie had no idea how much time had passed before Harry finally left the bar. He had been nursing his third beer and losing his focus when he looked up and noticed Harry was no longer with his friends. A quick scan of the place and he saw the killer exiting the bar. Leslie got up from his booth, maybe a little too quickly to go unnoticed, and pushed his way through the bar and out the door.
The street hadn’t changed; still dark and downtrodden. Leslie looked in both directions. Harry was nowhere to be seen. It was like he had vanished into thin air.
Jesus,
he thought, as he once again looked in both directions. He had no idea how he had disappeared so fast. All he knew was, with Harry gone the night had been a waste of time; he’d accomplished nothing.
He couldn’t accept that. Leslie started down the street in the direction from which he had originally seen Harry approaching Duffy’s. He was probably heading home, maybe he could catch up to him.
Leslie was moving fast – too fast. It was that momentum and his desire to catch up with Harry that left him open to Harry’s attack. He’d gotten about a block up the street when Harry had suddenly stepped out of an alley, grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him into the alley. Leslie had been so intent on moving forward that he’d been taken completely by surprise, and Harry had him off balance. Using what momentum he had, Harry sent Leslie falling to the ground, crashing into an assortment of garbage cans that had been stored in the alley. The noise definitely broke the quiet of the night, but was probably going to be of no use to Leslie, as he figured nobody in a neighborhood like this was going to come and investigate. Anyone hearing the noise was probably beating a hasty retreat or checking to make sure their doors were locked.
Leslie was not a fighter. He’d never actually been in a fight before, not even as a youngster. Harry, however, well, violence was a daily way of life for him. Before Leslie could make any sense of what was happening, Harry was upon him, kicking him hard, knocking him backwards, even further into the alley. Leslie did his best to try and block the kicks, but Harry was hitting him with such speed and ferocity that all he could try to do was protect his head and roll away from the kicks, in an attempt to escape them, or at least not allow his attacker to hit him so completely – a glancing blow was preferable to some of the blows Harry was presently connecting with.
It seemed like he was rolling away forever, new pains introducing themselves to different parts of his body, before the beating Harry was administering finally came to a stop. As he tried to catch his breath – several of the blows had connected squarely with his stomach – Leslie could hear Harry also trying to catch his breath. He’d stopped his attack, Leslie figured, because he had tired himself out. If he’d been in better shape, Leslie would have been in big trouble. His only hope right now was that the physical activity of kicking the shit out of him was enough to give Harry, based on his age, a heart attack; definitely not a winning strategy.
Before Leslie could get complete control of his own breathing and pain, Harry reached down and grabbed him by the jacket, pulling him to his feet. Just as Leslie got at eye level, Harry head butted him. Leslie, whose feet had been just gaining control of themselves, buckled. Harry hadn’t let him go, however, electing to hold him steady at eye level. Leslie could see Harry was angry; he fought to maintain consciousness, sure that if he didn’t all would definitely be lost; although based on his performance so far, unconsciousness might be a better answer than his current predicament.
“You been eyeballin’ me all night, arsehole,” said Harry. “You got a problem with me, or just fuckin’ suicidal?”
So much for being inconspicuous,
thought Leslie.
He let out a moan; that didn’t appear to please Harry.
“You walk into a bar like that? A stranger and you expect to go unnoticed, arsehole? You that stupid?”
“I...I...,” Leslie managed to utter. He knew he had to say something; he had to engage Harry in conversation, before Harry decided to just put him out of his misery. The problem was his mouth and mind was no longer working in concert with one another at that moment.
Not pleased with the course of their dialogue, Harry hauled off and punched Leslie in the face; this time he allowed him to fall to the ground in a heap. His feet were definitely as strong as jelly; he lay on the ground and through blurred vision watched Harry staring down at him. Probably surveying his victim and wondering where he should hurt him next.
Leslie was surprised he was still conscious. He had no idea he could take a beating like this and not pass out. It was either impressive or just bad luck. Doing the only thing he could think of, Leslie, fighting more pain than he ever imagined he could experience at one time, crawled a few feet away from Harry towards the back of the alley.
“There’s nowhere to go, pal,” said Harry, amused. Leslie, whose vision was getting somewhat better, could see Harry was enjoying this. This was probably part of what excited him; he was like a cat playing with a mouse, keeping him alive and toying with him, until it was finally time to deliver the killing blow. The fear he instilled in his victims was almost as good, if not better, than the actual moment of murder. Leslie could appreciate this – especially as a crime writer – if it weren’t for the fact that in this little game he was the mouse.
“Wait. WAIT!” said Leslie. Luckily his mind and mouth had formed an alliance and were at least attempting to work together. “I’m a reporter. The Examiner!”
“I don’t think I’ve ever killed a reporter before,” said Harry, unimpressed. “I hope you wrote your own obit before coming down here tonight.”
“I don’t mean you any harm,” said Leslie. He knew it sounded stupid the minute he said it, but what the hell, he was grasping at straws here.
Harry just laughed. “You, harm me?”
“I didn’t know how to approach you. I’m just doing some research, that’s all.”
“Sucks to be you, pal,” said Harry.
Harry started to advance. Leslie scrambled backwards, but he’d finally met the back wall of the alley and it wasn’t letting him go any further.
“WAIT! NO! I write books,” said Leslie
. Ah, yes,
he thought,
the old, ‘I write books’ self-defense maneuver. Fucking brilliant!
“Crime novels. Fiction,” he said. “I’m harmless, really.”
Harry didn’t care. He reached down and grabbed Leslie by the jacket once again. Leslie tried to push him away, but he had nothing in him. He was like a rag doll in this killer’s hands. Harry pulled him to his feet. Leslie didn’t know what was coming next, but he knew he wouldn’t like it.
This could be it.
“The Brannigan novels,” he said for no other reason except he thought he should say something, anything while his mouth still worked. “I’m Leslie Marshall; Dan Marshall’s my dad.”
Harry paused. Leslie could see he was just getting ready to slug him again, but stopped. Leslie, who had been anticipating a punch to the face, saw a curious look replace the one of anger on Harry’s face. Then Harry smiled, as he let Leslie go. Leslie managed to stay on his feet, and stumbled back a couple of steps, using the alley wall to help balance him.
“Leslie Marshall? Dan Marshall? Fuck me, MARSHALL,” said Harry. “Son-of-a-bitch if you don’t kinda look like him. Dan fuckin’ Marshall.”
Harry started laughing. Leslie just watched him, curious. He had no idea what he was going to do next. The gun was still in his jacket pocket, but somehow in all the beating, he had forgotten it was there. He wasn’t used to reaching for a weapon.
“Fuckin’ Leslie Marshall,” said Harry. “You’re the son-of-a-bitch that got away.”
“ollie,
OLLIE,
out come free!”
Nothing.
“Ollie, Ollie, out come free, you little shit.”
Once again, nothing.
“Where the hell are you, you little bastard,” said Harry Madwin as he rummaged through the closet in one of the kid’s bedrooms at Dan Marshall’s house. It definitely looked like a ten-year-old’s bedroom, so where the hell was he?
“Maybe the little shit ain’t home,” said Sal Lunkin. “Check under the bed. Kids always hide under the bed. Lack imagination at that age.”
Harry did as Sal asked, got down on all fours and checked under the bed. He had to get low to see by the wooden sideboards that hung low and framed it, but as far as he could see, there was no one under it.
“Nothin’ under here,” he said.
“Shit. He ain’t home. Lucky bastard,” said Sal. “Let’s go.”
Sure they had combed the entire upstairs of the Marshall residence, Harry and Sal made their way downstairs, where the rest of the Marshall family were waiting.
Cautious and listening carefully, young Leslie Marshall dropped to the floor from under his bed and quickly surveyed all around, looking to make sure there were no legs visible beside his bed. It had taken everything he had to hold on and stay quiet, but he had. He was terrified and didn’t want those men to find him. He knew as long as he stayed silent he’d be golden. He’d discovered this particular hiding place while playing hide and seek with his younger brother and sister. He’d discovered that the wood paneling that went around his bed, while allowing visibility under it, actually served to hide a person, if they simply grabbed a couple of the wooden slats that the box spring rested on and pulled themselves up, holding on for dear life. If you could hold that position long enough, anyone quickly looking under the bed, wouldn’t see you. Leslie had been proud of the spot; it made him feel like Houdini. Never had he considered though that he’d be hiding under circumstances like these.
It was close to dinner and his younger brother, Scott, only seven-years-old and his sister, Mary, only five-years-old, had all ready gone downstairs. He’d discovered earlier that his mother was making Shepherd’s Pie a meal he didn’t particularly enjoy. It wasn’t that he didn’t like all the things that comprised it, like potatoes, ground beef, peas, carrots and such, just that somehow when they were all put together they became something unlikeable to his particular palate. As such, he was in no hurry to get downstairs and start dinner; he knew it was going to be a long evening of him sitting at the table picking at his food and his parents telling him he wasn’t allowed to leave the table until he had cleaned his plate. He was about to do some hard time, and seeing how his parents wouldn’t let him and his brother and sister have a dog, he had no one to secretly feed his food to. It just wasn’t fair; as such he was in no hurry to go downstairs and start his sentence.
As Leslie sat upstairs and awaited the inevitable, the doorbell rang. This was exciting news. Maybe a pizza delivery guy had gotten lost and needed to give away some free pizzas before they went bad, and he and his family were going to be the lucky recipients. Maybe another family was showing up for a visit, his cousins or something, and there wouldn’t be enough Shepherd’s Pie to feed everyone, so they’d have to go out to dinner. The sound of the doorbell offered up countless possibilities to his young and desperate mind. As such, he raced out to the top of the stairs, just as his father was walking down the hallway to the front door. He wanted to witness the dinner miracle first hand.
What he witnessed instead, forced him quickly back into the shadows of the landing at the top of the stairs. The minute his father opened the door, he was hit hard with the butt end of a pistol, sending him staggering backwards, dazed. Leslie knew is father was a tough man, and wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t gone down on his knees, but his father didn’t have much of a chance; as quickly as he was hit, four men rushed through the door and clobbered him again, this time, knocking him to the ground, bloodying his face. Horrified, Leslie kept silent, watching the men surround his father, as his mother started to scream and his two siblings started to cry. He watched as two of the men grabbed his father and dragged him into the family room. It was only when he heard a voice say, “There’s an older boy. Check upstairs,” that he raced like hell to his bed and his favorite hiding spot. He wanted to cry, but he knew that if he made a sound, he was in trouble.
Leslie cautiously moved to his bedroom door which was halfway open. He was pretty sure he heard the two men heading downstairs, the stairs themselves making that all too familiar creaking noise that it always did when certain steps were hit. Leslie knew each and every one of them, as he’d snuck downstairs many evenings to watch late night TV or play his Nintendo. Despite having heard those sounds, he was cautious. If he got caught now, it would be the waste of a great hiding space.
Downstairs he could hear the sounds of men talking loud; it was easy to determine they were angry; angry at his father.
Leslie quietly made his way to the top of the stairs, keeping to the shadows. Luckily, at this time of day, the sun had gone down, and luckily his father had a thing about the family turning on all the lights and wasting energy. Actually, it wasn’t so much wasting energy, in that he was worried about the environment, but wasting energy in that
I’m paying for all these damn lights so why don’t some of you turn them off when you leave the damned rooms
.
Seeing how he had memorized the various sounds the floorboards and stairs made, Leslie was able to get to the top of the stairs and down the first couple of them without attracting any attention. From a certain vantage point at the top of the stairs, you could see into the family room. Not the entire family room, but a good deal of it, and the angle was such that he’d never been spotted. He’d sat in that spot numerous times, eavesdropping on his parents; things in the Marshall household seemed to be on a need to know basis, and although his parents didn’t think he needed to know, he thought he did.
“Shut them up, forchristsakes,” he heard one of the men say. At that time he had no idea that man was Morgan Neil. “Shut ‘em up or I’ll shut ‘em up myself.”
Leslie could just see his mother; he’d never seen her look so frightened; she was his mom, she wasn’t afraid of anything. She had her arm around his sister Mary, who was crying, and he assumed her other arm was around his brother; that side of her being obscured from his view, although he could hear Scott crying as well. One of his mother’s hands went across his sister’s mouth, and he figured the other around his brother’s as she tried to muffle their crying. He could hear her trying to reassure them everything was all right.
From his vantage point he could also see his father, his face bloodied, kneeling in the center of the family room. He could also see Morgan, standing in front of his father, a gun in his hand. Two of the other gun men, Harry and Alan Clothier were visible to him, both of them with guns in their hands. The other guy, the one that had come upstairs with Harry, the one he would eventually come to learn was Sal, was out of sight from this particular sight line.
“You made a big mistake, Dan,” he heard Morgan say, before, to his surprise, Morgan levelled his gun at his father and fired twice.
It all happened so damned fast!
He watched in horror as two bullets entered his father’s head, at least one of them exiting out the back of it in a spray of blood, skull and brain matter. He heard his Mother scream, as his sibling’s crying went up an octave. It took everything he had, not to react with a scream. As he watched his Father’s body flop to the ground, he heard the same man say, “Finish ‘em all.” He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t look away, as four more shots rang out. He saw two of them hit his Mother, one in the chest and the other in her head, and one hit his sister Mary in the head, the impact of the bullet almost exploding it like a ripe melon. The fourth shot hit his brother in the head, but he didn’t see that.
His young mind was struggling. What had he just witnessed?
What the hell was happening? Why weren’t they eating Shepherd’s Pie?
This was all wrong!
Even as he was trying to register what he had just witnessed, his mind knew enough to tell him to move. With the same stealth he’d used to walk down those couple of steps, he went right back up them and raced to his bedroom and his bed. He could hear the men moving, heading for the front door of the house, or were they coming upstairs again, looking for him? He had no idea, all he knew was he dove under his bed, rolled onto his back, and grabbed hold of those slates with both hands and his feet and hauled himself up out of sight. He didn’t hear the door close as the four men exited the house; he didn’t hear anything, his full concentration was on holding himself in place under his bed until his young arms couldn’t hold him any longer. He wanted to cry, but he also knew silence was his best friend now.
Leslie leaned against the alley wall, looking at Harry who was looking right back at him. Harry seemed amused.
“You were in the house that night weren’t you?” asked Harry. “We looked everywhere for you but couldn’t find your sorry little ass. But you were there. Where the hell were you hiding?”
Leslie just looked at Harry; he didn’t feel much like talking and still had to figure a way out of this mess.
“Morgan doesn’t like to leave witnesses behind. Figured you needed to go. Actually put out a hit on you. Fucking ten-year-old with a price on his head. Morgan didn’t believe you were at a friend’s house. That’s what your old man told him. Said you were having a sleepover some where’s. We didn’t buy that shit. But you were one lucky bastard. Once the police and the Feds didn’t come calling we just figured you had nothing to tell them. Weren’t the eyewitness they was looking for; or maybe you didn’t see anything. Either way, they moved you away and we just forgot about your sorry ass. I wonder if Morgan would still pay that price, you know, allowing for inflation and what not.”
Harry laughed. Leslie could see he was having a good time with all of this. Leslie had been an eye witness, but it was determined he was an unreliable eyewitness. He assumed the authorities knew there was a hit out on him, and didn’t think, in the long run, in the fragile and damaged state he was in after the murder of his family, and what he had witnessed in his family room when he finally left his hiding spot and went downstairs; what he had seen before he had called 911, that he’d make a good or reliable witness against Morgan and his cronies. It’s always a gamble putting a kid on the witness stand, and in his case, they must have figured he wouldn’t make the grade.
“So you’re a reporter now,” said Harry. “Someone in the family going legit. Not like your old man, huh. He certainly wouldn’t have allowed me to get the drop on him like this. That’s why we had to surprise him at your house; only way to get done what needed to be done. Your old man was a real bastard, he was.”
Leslie had no idea what the hell Harry was talking about. He’d helped kill his Father and his family, what did he know about them?
“What are you talking about,” he finally managed to spit out.
“Your old man. Dan Marshall. Fucking nutcase that one. Fucking psycho.”
Leslie was stunned; what was this asshole talking about? He could see Harry noticed his confusion. Through the damage he had done to Leslie’s face, he could no doubt still see the surprise on it; Leslie never did have much of a poker face.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” said Harry. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea, do you?”
Leslie was at a loss for words.
“Morgan and your old man. They were fucking partners,” said Harry. “You think Morgan’s a bad ass, a killer, you should have seen your old man in action. Fuck, I guess you were too young. What happened to your old man, hell, he did the same to others. Like I said, fucking psycho.”
Leslie had heard enough. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” he said.
Harry didn’t even flinch. “Got yourself a bit of the old Marshall temper now don’t you,” he said. “Listen arsehole, your old man was a shit. No good. He and Morgan was partners, but you know how it goes, some partnerships work out and some don’t. Sometimes it’s a good split and sometimes not so good. Sometimes it even gets a little bloody.”
Harry just looked at him; Leslie could see he was enjoying this.
“We had to off your family,” continued Harry. “Only way to sneak up on ole Danny boy. Do it at home where he never brought his work. That, and Morgan wasn’t sure if the psycho Marshall gene wasn’t going to be passed down to his kiddies. You see, Morgan’s smart that way. Don’t leave anyone behind who might come looking for revenge later.”
“Fuck Morgan,” was all Leslie could think to say. This dialogue had given him some time to regain control of his thoughts. His mind wasn’t busy getting ready to register the latest pain Harry was serving up, preoccupied with telling him to roll and cover his head. He was also thinking about the gun he had stashed in his coat pocket; the gun he had failed to reach for so far. It was there; it might also be his only way out of this mess. At some point, he figured, he had to go for it, but when? If he fumbled with it, he’d be as good as dead; at the same time, now that he was here, facing one of the men who had murdered his family, could he actually pull it out and shoot the man? It was one thing to sit in his office or at home fantasizing about this moment, but another thing to actually be in that moment.