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WOULD forever remember all
three of their violent deaths in the most paralyzing shade of blue. It would cut into him at unpredictable moments, like a gutting knife made of colored light. He would never be free from it.
The moonlight had shafted in through the front window enough that he could see clearly.
When he held up his hand it was a different color. Red. Blood.
But then he drew closer and saw the ligature marks on her neck, ugly and blotchy like someone had burned her there.
Her eyes were wide and open, staring back at him, but not seeing him. Like Mom. She would never see him again.
And he tilted his gaze to the
ceiling and screamed out a curse, fueling it with all the rage and loss he was right now feeling.
A sparrow zipped across in front of him, narrowly dodged a passing car before soaring upward, catching a breeze, and drifting
pecking order, and hierarchy established before age six, like a pack of wolves. Done.
On the other side of the street an old woman in a wheelchair was being rolled out of a medical transport van. Her left side was useless, facial paralysis on the same side. Stroke. Documented. Her caregiver had mild scoliosis with a clubfoot. Imprinted.
He closed his eyes to block out his recent street observations, though it was all still there, like a cinema screen on the inside of his eyeballs. It would always still be there. He often wanted to
forget what he had just seen.
Stupid way of remembering. Asinine, really.
He really wasn’t okay. He would never be okay in any way.
Or else the whole neighborhood had gone deaf that night. And blind. And mute.
God would hardly be impressed.
These dudes were bad, evil, kill you to look at you. They could’ve found out where he lived.
THE BAR WAS much like every other bar Decker had
ever been in. Dark, cool, musty, smoky, where light fell funny and everyone looked like someone you knew or wanted to know. Or, more
drink away anything that life threw at you. Where a thousand Billy Joel wannabes would serenade you into the wee hours. Only I could drink a thousand drinks and never forget a damn thing. I would just remember every detail of the thousand drinks down to the
“First rule of a con, Slick,” said Decker. “Don’t play on the sidelines while you’re on a job. And when I said you were a pro I was being charitable.”
“What a genius you are.”
where uneven and nicotine-stained teeth lurked like bats hanging in a cave.
The frames flew past his eyes so fast it was hard to see, but he could still see everything in there. He came out the other end of this mental exercise with not a single hit.
He was remembering. He was thinking back to what he once was. And what he was now. He thought about this often, even when he didn’t want to. Sometimes, most of the
time, the decision wasn’t up to him. It was up to his brain, which, ironically enough, seemed to have a mind of its own.
it was difficult for him to remember who he used to be. And how he had gotten to be what he was now. He closed his eyes.
Cars were squealing as rubber kissed pavement way too hard.
Sirens sounded. Raised voices, metal clattering on metal. Heavy boots on concrete.
He listened to the others to see if they knew what was happening, but everyone there seemed to be stunned by what they were
The man was dressed in a suit with stains on the sleeve. He was in his early sixties, very near retirement, slightly stooped and with comb-over
He turned and stumbled toward his car, a light tan Malibu, fell inside, started it up, and left tire rubber on the street.
gun at his waistband. That would
As a detective and now a PI, he had to be able to bullshit, otherwise his job would have been impossible.
I think my brain bounced against my skull multiple times like a bird trying to introduce itself to a window until its neck snaps.
Later, they told me I died on the field twice but he brought me back both times from the hereafter. They told me he was screaming in my ear, “Hang on, ninety-five. Hang the hell
Dealing with scumballs all day
right now. Lie perfectly, Amos. You can do this. You have to do this. Every word counts. Because there will be blowback on this. Every word… So hit it.
The right words flashed through Decker’s mind. It was like he was reading off a teleprompter. “And sending him to an arraignment without counsel or with ill-prepared counsel
She hesitated and he could read the vacillation in her eyes.
Her vacillation finally broke, like water from a womb.
THEY ROUNDED THE corner of the hall and there he was, a rat in a cage, at least to Decker’s thinking.
Decker nodded but didn’t look at her. Her heels tap-tapped away.
They’d put him in an orange prison jumpsuit. His hands and feet were manacled and the waist chain bolted to the wall. Which was a pity because if he tried to attack Decker, Decker could just kill him in self-defense.
The eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.
Many were dumb as dirt and had committed crimes for reasons stupider than they were.
I’m bad news, man. Always have been. If my momma were alive she could tell you. I’m just a shit.
He could run for it, he supposed, but that was probably what they were expecting. And he didn’t like running. He just wasn’t built for it anymore.
MacKenzie Miller was in his late fifties, puffy as a bullfrog and with similar coloring.
