Sleep with the Fishes (7 page)

Russ chuckled gently and fumbled with his keys in the shadow of his truck.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“Russ, ya O.K. to drive? Ya know, statistics show that most accidents at night are alcohol-related.”

“Look, Bob, are you any soberer than me?” Russ eyed his giant friend.

“I think so. I didn’t have any of that Canadian. Too many free radicals in blended whiskys,” Bob warned.

“Uh-huh. Well, if you drive me, how are you gonna drive your Bronco?” Russ held up a key and opened the driver’s door.

“Little Bob—he never drinks anything much—he an’ me is together since Val took his sedan.” Bob held the car door open without effort as Russ climbed in and tried to pull the door closed.

“O.K., look, I appreciate the concern.” Russ tugged at the door and almost pulled himself from the truck to the parking lot. Bob still held it open. “O.K., look, I’ll drive, O.K., an’ you ride with me an’ make sure I drive O.K. all the way home. See, this truck, well, y’know it’s got kinda funny steering and stuff.”

Little Bob pulled up in Big Bob’s Bronco, camcorder on the seat beside him.

Big Bob nodded. “O.K., Russ. But ya so much as swerve and we stop. I ain’t lettin’ ya kill me.”

On the way down 241, Russ kept a steady hand, and Big Bob only felt obliged to comment on maintaining the speed limit.

“Y’know, Russ, in almost eighty percent of all accidents after dark, excessive speed is listed as a secondary cause of accident.”

Russ nodded in the milky glow of the dashboard. “I did not know that, Bob. Say, Bob, who do you think this guy Bifulco is? A TV personality? What?” A glance in the rearview confirmed Little Bob was right behind.

“Dunno, but I don’t never forget faces. I coulda used a good look at him. The ducks don’t put out much light. It’s not exactly well lit at the bar.”

“Do you think if you got a better look it might come back to you?”

“Might. Might.”

“Well, let’s say we go take a look.”

“Tonight?”

As the International veered up Ballard Road from 241, Russ gave the tan BMW parked on the shoulder only passing notice.

“Shhh. We’re gonna sneak up on Ol’ Sid, see if you recognize him. Don’t want the headlights to flash his cabin as I come down my drive.” Russ killed the headlights.

“Russ…”

“Bob, I know every inch of this drive.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Little Bob had gone to his parking lights.

“You’re goin’ a little fast there, partner,” Big Bob warned.

Russ tugged the wheel left, neatly turning the International down the shadowy slope of his driveway.

Impact. Quaking metal racked the front of the truck; a crack split across the windshield. Standing on the brake, Russ locked the wheels and the International skewed, grinding to a stop on the side of the drive. The Bronco’s orange parking lights swerved around them to the left.

Steam jetted from the truck’s groaning radiator.

Russ was still gripping the wheel, and Bob had his outstretched hands on the dashboard.

Tinkling shards of glass falling from a headlamp flooded the sudden silence.

Russ and Bob looked at each other.

“I’d say ya hit somethin’,” Bob said.

Russ could see his International’s hood was creased dead center, like cake icing smooshed by an ogre’s finger.

In front of them, Little Bob put the Bronco in drive, pulled on the headlights, and began a three-point turn in front of Russ’s trailer.

“It was a deer, I think. We ran it over.” Russ reached for the door handle, but hesitated. “I felt it go down.”

“A bear, ya think?” Big Bob grabbed his door handle, paused, then wrenched it open. “Messed up your radiator, that’s for sure.”

Russ emerged slowly, just as the Bronco’s headlights came to bear on him and the obscuring cloud of Prestone fog that geysered from his grille. Plumes swirled over the truck.

Little Bob climbed out of the Bronco and joined Big Bob and Russ. The three stood staring at the wisps and tumbles of steam that rolled through the headlights’ glare.

Big Bob held a shading hand to his brow and scanned the ground around Russ’s truck. “I don’t see nothin’.”

Russ didn’t see anything either. But he was too scared to say anything.

Little Bob put his camcorder on the ground, got on all fours, and looked under the truck.

“Oh boy, oh boy…”

Russ and Big Bob got on all fours. The view under the truck was obscured by steam. At first. Then the clouds parted. They could see arms. And a red and white striped shirt.

“Holy bejesus, Russ!” Big Bob smacked himself in the head.

“Man, oh man!” Little Bob put a hand over his eyes.

Russ suddenly found himself in a pastry shop, sticking his finger into slices of strawberry pie while the girl at the register—Penelope?—was distracted by a pink parrot, squawking “Light me, Louie!”

Russ’s fainting spell lasted a minute or so. Long enough for help to arrive. Someone was pinching his nose. Pastries, parrots, and Penelope vaporized, and his neighbor Sid, wearing a red satin bathrobe, was leaning over him.

“Congratulations, Smonig.” Sid grinned. “You, my friend, are a murderer.”

“My way
is the only way, believe me, Smonig. I know how to get away with murder.” Sid put a mug of instant coffee in front of Russ, who hadn’t made a peep since leaving the confectionary and entering Sid’s cabin.

But Sid had been doing plenty of peeping, enough for both of them, and for the Bobs too. Sid wasn’t sure he was getting through to Russ, so he set it out for him again.

“You got a blood alcohol level that’d get you busted for sure. Nothin’ you can do about that for maybe six hours. By that time, if you call the cops then, delayed like, they’ll figure something don’t smell good. And when they find out you was in a bar all night, forget about it. And who was this schmoe anyways? Do you know him? Well, as it so happens, I do know him. He’s a no-good louse—a crook and a rapist.”

“Hey!” Big Bob snapped from a daze and struggled out of the musty plaid couch. “Russ, ya know who Sid is? He’s Sid Bifulco!”

Russ just stared at the tabletop. Sid sucked his teeth and folded his arms.

“Sure, he’s Sid Bifulco! Ya know, that guy!” Big Bob spun around and looked at the other drowsy Bob.

“Don’t ya get it, he’s, like, a mobster. They called him ‘Sleep’ ’cause he put a guy out before killing him. Ya killed like, what was it?” Big Bob snapped his fingers at “Sleep.”

Sid brushed at a lapel.

“Convicted of ten murders.” Sid held up ten digits for all to see.

“Ten guys! He killed ten guys! But he got outta prison ’cause he ratted—oh, sorry…” Big Bob bowed to his host apologetically.

Little Bob came alive, jumping to his feet. “Yes, yes, that’s it—you’re right! I remember.” But when Sid glanced at him, Little Bob sat right back down like he’d spoken out of turn.

It didn’t bug Sid that they knew his past. In fact, being a murderer engendered a special kind of respect, an esteem that he sorely missed. Sid reclaimed the stage.

“There you have it, Russ.” Sid snapped his fingers in the Bobs’ direction. “A watchamacallit, a testimonial. As my lawyer Endelpo would say, ‘I have many years’ experience in these matters.’ Russ, listen t’me—that crumb you just crushed?—yeah, his name is Jimmy…eh…Spaghetti. He was the kinda lowlife you couldn’t avoid in my line of work.”

“Spaghetti?” Little Bob jumped up. “His name was Spaghetti, like with meatballs?”

Sid winced, trying to stay focused on his yarn. “So this Spaghetti guy was bad. A burglar, and a rapist when opportunity knocked. He liked coming out here to lonely cabins with old ladies in ’em. Jimmy had what you’d call a special fondness for old ladies. Not a pretty character, believe you me. BUT!” Sid pressed his hands together prayer-style, pointing them at Russ.

“BUT…here you come with your truck and a snootful. Good thing or bad thing?”

“Bad thing!” Little Bob threw up his hand from the sofa, but the teacher ignored him.

“You actually done a
good
thing, Russ.” Sid chuckled, parting his hands as if revealing the truth.

“Not only did you whack a real scumbag, but you saved the taxpayers an awful lotta money by puttin’ him in the flower bed. The trial an’ all, what would that cost? Unbelievable! We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars! Maybe millions. And all that green for a guy like that?”

“He’s right, Russ.” Big Bob stepped up next to Sid. “Ya know it costs somethin’ like twenty-five grand a year to keep a guy in prison? And your average felony conviction costs somethin’ like a half million dollars or more. That comes outta our taxes.”

“See, Russ, the big guy knows.” Sid patted Big Bob on the arm then crouched in front of Russ trying to catch his gaze.

“Now look at me, for instance. I murdered ten guys—maybe a lot more, ones they never knew about. An’ I’m outta the joint. How long do you think this guy Jimmy…eh…Spaghetti would stay in the pen, if convicted?”

“The average prison time served for a rapist is only like two years, Russ,” Big Bob agreed. “For burglary maybe less than a year on a first conviction.”

Sid jerked a thumb at Big Bob.

“Big Guy’s right. I’m right. Hey, you…”

Little Bob, still cuddling his camcorder, rose and took small steps toward Sid like he was approaching the principal’s desk.

“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. Whadda you think? Was getting run over by Russ too good for that no-good-bag-of-shit Jimmy or what?” Sid waved a hand in Little Bob’s direction.

“Did you really kill ten people?”

Sid turned his head and smiled directly at Little Bob. “Whadda you think?”

“Wow. If, if as he says, Russ, the guy wuz like a rapist…Old ladies, Russ!” Little Bob winced, and took his seat.

Sid focused back on Russ.

“You see, Russ? It’s not a bad thing you done. Now I ask you: will the police see it that way? No, they won’t see it that way. All they know is you were DWI. And the shame of it all is you’d throw your life away on a scumbag like Spaghetti.”

“Please shut up!” Russ slammed his coffee mug on the table. To Russ, a disaster like running down and killing Jimmy Spaghetti was the last straw. This was the final smashup in a life of roadway disasters. He had tried to break the cycle, tried to extinguish the fire of Sandra’s death, tried to flee doubting friends and family in Hartford. Russ had made a clean break by embracing the supposedly simple rural life. Somewhere along the line, though, somewhere during those ten years since Sandra’s death, the specter of the fiery ravine was supposed to have dissolved.

It had been hand to mouth all the way. Russ was always one catastrophe away from ruin. He needed to win big for a change, to break free. But now freedom from his curse seemed utterly hopeless.

Russ’s doom shadowed the room like an eclipse. Sid got up and walked out. In a minute, he came back dressed in slacks, windbreaker, and sport shirt. Over one arm was a drop cloth, some clothesline, and a coil of oily hemp rope he’d scavenged from the cedar closet. In one hand was a glass of water, and in the other hand were two white tablets. He pulled up next to Russ.

“Here.”

Russ took the pills, took the water. He hoped “Sleep” had struck again.

“You guys watch him ’til he drops off. Then you can beat it. He’ll sleep on my couch for the night.” Sid went out the front door.

First and foremost, the package was wrapped burrito-style in a tarp, preferably waterproof. Next, the package was bound tightly with rope to insure that there was no unraveling. These preliminaries served the purpose of containing incriminating fluids and fibers, loose personal effects, ungainly snagging limbs, and stray rotting tidbits down the line. It also facilitated handling, dragging, and dropping.

But without assistance, getting the package into the trunk was problematic. Johnny Fest was a good 6'4" and 280 pounds. Sid could lift the feet, but not the torso.

Sid was not without a few tricks of his trade. He dragged his package beneath a nearby tree and tossed a rope over a limb. One end was tied off at Big Bob’s front bumper, the other at Fest’s chest. The bumper groaned, the limb creaked, the rope stretched and frayed. Sid backed up Big Bob’s Bronco about eight feet and stopped. What with the stretch in the rope and the bending tree limb, Fest’s belly dangled only three feet off the ground. His toes touched dirt. But it was enough so that when Sid backed his white Ford LTD up to him he could push on the soles of Johnny’s tarped feet and fold the package headfirst into the trunk.

Just like old times. With Johnny in the trunk, Sid drove to a construction site he’d noticed where Route 241 passed over a swampy gorge about ten miles north of Frustrumburg.

Pillars for the new Route 241 bridge had concrete foundations that extended some distance into the ground. These foundations were made by driving tapered steel cylinders into the earth and filling them with concrete. Pile drivers were used to pound these steel cylinders into the ground, and they were noticeable to Sid because of the height of their substantial derricks. And because they signaled a great place to dump a body.

Jagged cerise of sunrise tinged the horizon where the low clouds had started to break. Out of the night, icy raindrops beat a slow tap, then a drumroll on the plywood that covered the steel pile casing. Sid shoved the plywood to one side and looked down the casing. Bottomless to the eye. He left one end of the rope secured around his package, then tossed the other end over a steel pole above the casing, then tied that end to his bumper. He drove twenty feet forward, the rope pulled the package from the trunk, and he heard a dull thump. Stepping out of the LTD into a steady rain, Sid unfolded a pocketknife and looked down at Fest dangling in the gloom of the casing. He drew the blade across the rope, it snapped, the package dropped feetfirst. There was a sound not too unlike the snapping of ice trays when it hit bottom.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Sid smirked, drawing a sleeve over his wet face. Several buckets full of gravel dumped in atop the package assured that nobody would notice it eighty-five feet down. Sid retrieved his rope, replaced the plywood cover, and drove home. All that was left was to deep-six Fest’s stolen BMW in the woods somewhere, and then Sid could catch some winks.