The Subtle Art of Brutality

“I saw on TV.”

Abe keeps on anyways. “Fucked that house up like he was a bull on ’roids. He pummeled every square inch of that house.”

TV had some on this morning’s broadcast.

“Dug up his kid,” Abe said.

“Saw it.”

“They’ll be looking for Francis, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Dubberly was the investigator on that one?”

“Yes.”

Detective Mickey Dubberly is a fat, shining example of the police department’s inability at quality screening. Dubberly is about as dirty as a cockroach trudging through pig shit, and what I really need to do is just plug him full of lead.

The one thing about scum cops: if they are given a way out that doesn’t involve something ugly, they’ll take it. No doubt Dubberly, the head detective on the missing Alisha McDonald case, was the one taking the biggest cut from the pervert’s in-laws.

“Dubberly can be dealt with easy enough,” I say without a true worry.

“You think?”

“Yes. Dubberly is a squirmer. He’ll run straight to the captain and blabber on and on about how he always thought Francis was the real threat...blah blah blah. He’ll pass the buck.”

“What if they find Francis’s corpse?”

“They’ll see that his brother shot him. If Kevin hasn’t already confessed everything.”

“Do you think McDonald will talk?” Abe. Cautious. Worried about his ass.

“Not about us.”

“You sure?”

“We shook hands on it if that means anything anymore. He said what he wanted. He got it. He pulled the trigger. I doubt he’ll talk.” Abe breathes in and out from his nose. I know Abe; that’s his nervous breathing.

“But, just in case I took the usual precautions.” Cash. No paper trail. No phone records. “All he could prove is he called you for help. When we first met he told me he spoke to several lawyers that day. You’ll be lost in the shuffle. Deny. Stick to it. You’re out of any real trouble.”

“Just deny it? What about the girl’s body? How’d he find it then?”

“Just because the police let go of their prime suspect doesn’t mean McDonald had to let go of his as well. Alisha was last seen with Francis. The brand-new garden planted the same time his kid disappeared, probably as big as a child’s coffin. McDonald also knew his brother had hurt another kid. It all adds up to him solving this on his own.”

“I hope so. I don’t need that kind of heat right now.”

“Pussy.”

“You know, I like that—” and I can’t hear Abe’s words because the colors smear in my mind, running like a fresh oil painting drenched in water. Red cascades down and peels away to an orange which becomes yellow before my brain seizes for just a moment and I know my teeth grit so hard it’s audible. The last runner of liquid horror traces down across my vision and my skull clea

rs up.

Just like that. Why I am unserviceable. Big Fry Smear.

My voice groggy and choked up: “I said I’d find his kid, not have his back later.”

Abe said, “Anyways, I sent a guy your way. Friend of a friend of a friend.”

“You don’t have friends, Abe.”