Michael Dennis McDermott lives in New York City with his wife, Patricia, and his faithful companion, Leo, The
Wonder Dog. Hi short stories and essays can be found in an array of online literary magazines, and his novel
Finders Keepers, an art themed murder mystery, was published in 2007 by Draumr Publishing.
Wonder Dog. Hi short stories and essays can be found in an array of online literary magazines, and his novel
Finders Keepers, an art themed murder mystery, was published in 2007 by Draumr Publishing.
Best Friend
A friend will help you move, your best friend will help you move – a body!
I heard that joke on HBO, or maybe on one of those Comedy Central specials and at first it made me laugh, but then on
reflection I realized the profound truth to that statement; and then it came to me it all depended on your place in the
social strata.
Now, this is going to sound chauvinistic, and it probably is, but over the years I’ve come to believe the people in the lower
classes form a stronger bond than those in the higher rankings. Initially the intensity of the affection in the upper echelon
may be the same as in the lower, but when push comes to shove, when inconvenience — not to mention outright danger
— comes into play, well then, the strength of the relationship in the upper tier seems to decrease in inverse proportion to
the rate of the imposition.
True, I can’t present this theorem as a mathematical certainty, but still I think it maintains certain validity.
I grew up in Queens County, in New York City, and we were a family of modest means in a community of like individuals. No
fancy prep schools here and most of us didn’t qualify for admittance to the Prestige Schools like Stuyvesant, or The Bronx
High School of Science, or Brooklyn Tech. No, it was the local grammar school, then off to the local high school, and then
for a few of us, to the closest affordable college. But while the residents of our neighborhood were denied admission to
the better schools because of our economic background, I think some of us were better prepared for the rigors of
everyday living.
Let me explain: In the so called lower class neighborhoods you learn about life real fast because it is in these areas most
crime is bred. I know this doesn’t come as a revelation to you, it shouldn’t, you’ve witnessed these results all your life;
poverty breeds crime. But there is one aspect to this circumstance that is beneficial; it’s called sink or swim, you learn to
adjust, to manage situations, to position yourself to stay out of harm’s way, or you suffer the consequences!
One of the first things you learn on the street (if you are an astute observer) is no one (except the deranged) really wants
to fight; it’s all about intimidation. Once you have this concept firmly in your grasp you no longer live with fear or
uncertainty. When you stand up to a bully — I don’t mean you put up your hands and say, “You wanna’ throw? Let’s
throw”. What I mean is when the intimidator sees you’re not intimidated and you will “throw” if provoked, he almost always
will back off.
This was a life lesson and it served me well in the business world.
In Saint Johns University I majored in Finance and while not at the top of my class, I did reasonably well. From there I went
to Brooklyn Law and did equally well; not great, but okay. I worked part-time in a local pharmacy and managed to maintain
my grades while doing so. The school work proved difficult, long hours of little more than tedium, but I had the drive and
support of my parents and through it all I managed to survive.
In law school I met Jeannie. She, like me, was an only child, but her father owned a small and profitable insurance agency,
so she enjoyed a school life of relative ease. Over the years we often joked about how her grades were so much better
than mine. I maintained mine would have been at least her equal were I not required to hold down a part time job — but I
knew the truth — her grades were better because she enjoyed more natural ability.
After we graduated and both passed the bar, we married.
As a graduation gift her parents generously gave us enough money to put down on a Brooklyn brownstone, and while
they were not thrilled about the location, they did maintain their distance so we could learn from our own mistakes. The
brownstone, a huge dowager from the late eighteen nineties, sat on Hicks street just a block from the East River. From
the upstairs parlor one got a glorious view of downtown Manhattan and the subway to the city lay at the end of our street.
They say luck is the residue of design, and this may well be true; but for us, luck was just luck, pure, undiluted, and to be
stumbled over. The house had been the longtime residence of an immigrant German family and they maintained it in
immaculate condition. As it always seems to happen, the children grew up and moved away and in the end the old couple
gave up the house and moved in with them. The market then was not what is now, and we were one step ahead of the
game. We thought it was cool, nothing else. A three story affair with an enormous basement, we loved the thought of
rattling around in all those rooms. And we knew the day would come when some of those rooms would be used as
bedrooms for children.
That never happened. As the years wore on we talked of adoption, but… but! Well, it’s all academic, for whatever reason,
spoken or unspoken, we never did adopt.
The house was big; we furnished it, lived in it, and enjoyed it.
***
After passing the bar, Jeannie secured a position with a small, but growing pharmaceutical firm. This was the era when ‘Big
Pharma’ began introducing a rash of new drugs while not so much concentrating on the drugs they already owned which
were about to go off patent. Jeannie’s firm saw the opportunity and leapt right in. They began manufacturing generic
versions of the top drugs. Yeah, the big companies fought like cats and dogs to maintain what they thought of as their
property, but the courts found against them and Jeannie’s firm flourished.
And as the firm flourished so did she.
As for me, after law school I took a position with a firm specializing in insurance matters. Big insurance matters! And this is
where my street training came into good use. Remember I said no one really wants to duke it out? This maxim is as valid
in industry as it is on the streets. And remember, also, I said the best way to handle a thug is to stare him down? Again,
industry and street share the same sentiments.
Nobody wants to fight and nobody wants to litigate!
With a bully you have to stand your ground and push him almost to the point where he’s certain a fight will ensue, but all
the while allow him the opportunity to walk away feeling like the winner without actual engaging in battle.
If you can accomplish this, you both win. You’ve stood your ground and protected your dignity and he walks away with
nothing in hand except a feeling of superiority. In essence this is what my job entailed; finding a compromise between
insurance giants letting them both walk away feeling good about themselves — with every one’s ass covered — and never
going to court to resolve matters.
Generated some good fees, I did, and they rewarded me well. Took me eight years, but finally I made partner.
Partner, this is another story. The word implies equality, but in reality it wasn’t so. The firm employing me sprung straight
out of the old boy network. In truth I could never figure out why they hired me, a kid from the streets who wouldn’t know
the Ivy League from the Justice League.
But hire me they did and it worked out well for all involved.
Sure, they treated me well and paid me well, but there were parties I couldn’t attend and clubs I could not join.
Time passes in a blink when there are no children to attend to, and one day many years later Jeannie came to me with a
financial statement in her hand. Because I did well we never had any need of the money she earned, so whatever didn’t go
into our savings account or portfolio went into her retirement account. First an ordinary I.R.A., then a Roth I.R.A. which
allowed you to shelter more of your money, and then different versions of 401k’s, which allowed you to protect yet even
more of your earnings while your company contributed an equal share.
When Jeannie showed me this statement which included the stock options she earned, the value exceeded one million
dollars!
And I wasn’t doing so bad either. As a matter-of-fact I did even better than she.
My salary far exceeded hers and my accountant saw to it that I, too, sheltered all I could. So whatever didn’t go into
savings and investments went into retirement plans of one sort, or another. When we got around to looking at my
package, we realized our net worth exceeded four million dollars, and that didn’t include the house. Over the years the
house we purchased for less than one hundred thousand dollars now increased in value to almost a million and a half.
“We’re millionaires,” Jeannie said.
“Yeah, so?”
“So, let’s retire.”
“We’re in our late forties, isn’t this a bit early for retirement?’
“I don’t mean retire, retire. I’m not looking forward to a gated community in Boca where you play golf all the time and I flirt
with the twenty-something tennis coach.”
“Then what do you mean? And it’s good to know about the tennis pro.”
“I mean retire from the jobs we both admit we’ve lost the passion for. Yes, you’re a partner, but they treat you like an
underling, and my company’s about to be swept up into a complicated merger that could render my talents meaningless.
There are things we could do in life.”
I never told Jeannie, but I did harbor a dream; I always wanted to write a novel. About what, I’m not sure. Maybe a
mystery with an insurance theme. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I just thought it would be fun to do.
“You know,” she continued, “I’ve become more involved in Cancer Care and they’ve been after me to take up a more active
role, maybe even Regional Director. I, I don’t know, I’m not happy, you’re not really happy, I just thought… ”
When we took a close look at things we realized we had few ties to New York City. Whatever friendships we maintained
over the years were superficial ones — almost all business related — and not ones to be missed. Our closest friends — a
boyhood friend of mine named Freddy, and his wife Patty — lived out on the south shore of Long Island, so there we set
our sights. But in the end we chose a small community on the north shore, only because it lay in a more isolated and less
touristy area.
It took about three years to sort things out, but in the end we settled in “Island Dunes” about mid-point between Mount
Sinai and Smithtown. We bought a good sized Colonial in an area of three acre zoning and settled in to enjoy our new
beginning. Jeannie realized her dream of working almost full time in the non-profit sector and I began my novel.
Sweet. We were still young, secure in our finances, and both following our dreams. Hey, what could go wrong?
As I said, my friend Freddy and I grew up in the same neighborhood and we shared many of the same values. Our careers
took us in separate directions and although we often went a good while without seeing each other, we still recognized the
bond between us.
Where I followed the path of education and a professional career Freddy followed a business model. A business model: a
euphemism for a job after high school.
He drove a ‘Roach Coach’.
For the uninitiated, a Roach Coach is one of those commissary trucks you see at construction sites. Coffee, rolls, bagels
and doughnuts in the morning and maybe some prepackaged sandwiches and cold drinks at lunchtime. Doesn’t sound like
much? It doesn’t. But it is. Those mini diners on wheels are extraordinarily profitable. So much so it takes a tough guy to
hold on to a specific location. In fact there were times when disputes were settled with baseball bats.
And Freddy could wield a baseball bat with the best of them.
Before long Freddy owned his own truck — then another, and another. When he finally sold the business, he’d
accumulated eight trucks and redeemed them for a sizable chunk of untaxed cash from a ‘Wise Guy’ wannabe.
From there he went into the wholesale food business.
New York City abounds in ethnic neighborhoods. And in each of these neighborhoods delis, bodegas, and thrift stores
spring from the earth like crocus in springtime; and like the crocus many of them never survive from year to year. They’re
‘Mom and Pops’, they do an all-cash business and seldom deal with legitimate wholesalers because of their lack of credit or
necessary licenses.
Freddy filled the void.
With off brand soda and juices, beers sometimes bought all cash from an otherwise legitimate wholesaler, close to out
dated cookies and snacks, and whatever sundries he could gather up, Freddy kept these immigrant entrepreneurs well
stocked. Before long he had fifteen cargo vans plying the city streets and raking in cash by the vanload. He made a lot of
money, but he wanted to go legit — at least partially so.
One day one of the beverage wholesalers he dealt with on a cash basis came to him. It seemed the man suffered a little
gambling problem and he needed a large influx of cash before his knees attracted the unhappy attention of some tire irons.
Now Freddy owned a legitimate business. Already servicing over three hundred accounts throughout Manhattan, the
Bronx, and Queens, he enjoyed an extraordinary base on which to begin expanding his empire.
He decided his first move would be to begin servicing the smaller Superettes and Supermarkets — the legitimate ones —
with his inventory of brand name beers and soda. Of course, they already did business with other distributors, but Freddy
could offer enhanced credit lines and he won many of them over.
But in doing this Freddy developed a problem.
Business was good — too good for one man to handle.
About two years before he bought the beer distributorship he hired a fellow to drive one of his vans. A Romanian-
Transylvanian immigrant named Alex. The man proved a hard worker and possessed good business sense. It wasn’t long
before Freddy relied more and more on him. He was ambitious and expanded his customer base by including bakeries,
Ninety-Nine cent stores, and even some gas stations to his list of customers.
Though wary of the man’s ambition, Freddy chose him to oversee his less than legitimate operation while he concentrated
on the more traditional.
Things went well. Freddy realized his dream. Hey, what could go wrong?
***
Our new house. The way the deal worked the developer bought up a tract of land — almost a thousand acres of scrub
pine, oak, and an occasional misdirected birch or black cherry — you choose the lot, the building design (with modifications
should you desire some), you waited almost a year, and then you were done.
The acreage ran in a narrow strip for almost a mile and I guess the units weren’t selling as fast as the developer hoped, so
a lot of the land remained unused. We thought this wonderful because even where the houses were built in close proximity
to one another there remained some deep woods between each plot. And for some reason the westernmost plots sold
much faster; so we chose a plot on the easternmost side. At first our nearest neighbor stood better than a quarter mile
away.
We moved in and soon developed a routine. Jeannie’s revolved around her charitable work; telephone calls, email, and
lunches filled her time and she reveled in it.
I developed my own routine. Over a course of two weeks, or so, I managed to lay out a path running behind the building
plots (but still well within the woods) and each morning — weather permitting — I’d hike from one end of the development
to the other. The entire round trip encompassed some two miles and took almost two hours. The reason it took so long?
Rough terrain and I walked at a pleasant pace. I’d started my novel so on each walk I’d plan what I intended to write about
later in the day. When I combined the walk, the plotting and the writing, with editing the previous day’s output, it ate up
most of my day.
It went well. I felt great. Hey, what could go wrong?
Then about three months after we moved in, as I began my walk I heard a huge rumbling from nearby. In fewer than five
minutes I discovered the plot next to ours had been sold and construction morning about to begin. The rumbling I heard
came from a bulldozer beginning to clear the land. At first we found the thought of having a neighbor so close by
distressing, but the woods were thick even in winter, and by spring they would be all but impenetrable.
I never knew much about home construction and I found it enjoyable watching the building grow as I continued my
morning jaunts. My path ran behind my new neighbor’s plot so I followed the procedure with increased interest.
Soon I came to know the General Contractor and many of the workmen and I found if I asked an intelligent question most
of them were happy to explain the machinations of their separate disciplines. The house grew and so did my appreciation
of their individual talents.
Before long the house sat almost finished. Then one day as I stopped to do my morning inspections I saw two deep holes
had been dug near the rear of the property and a trench led from the house to each of them.
“Dry wells”, one of the men explained as he pointed off to the side where two large concrete ‘spheres’ sat awaiting the
crane to lower them into place. Each of these forms stood about as tall as a man and were perforated with circular holes
from mid point to bottom. On the top I saw a cap, of sorts, which I thought might be for cleaning if a problem arose.
“Rain goes into the gutters,” the workman explained as he pointed to the almost completed house. “From there, down the
downspouts, through PCV pipes that we’ll lay in the trench, and then into the dry wells. Then little, by little, the rain drains
into the earth and doesn’t flood the street.”
The next day as I passed by I saw the dry wells in place.
“Just waitin’ for the cement to dry and then we’ll backfill the whole thing. Maybe lay some sod over it early next week.”
The next day, Friday, the holes were back filled and no trace of the dry wells could be seen.
***
“I killed a guy! Three times!”
***
On Thursday of that week Jeannie informed me she needed to drive to Utica, New York, for a special conference.
“Everybody gets to go to Vegas, or at least Miami, but where do I get to go? Utica! ” She informed me I would be on my
own for the weekend and if I possessed any brains I’d order out.
Just as I reached for the phone on Friday night, it began to ring.
“Hello?”
“Ronnie? Freddy.”
Freddy, my old pal Freddy. I hadn’t heard from him for a while so his call didn’t come as a complete surprise to me. But I
thought I detected something in his voice. You know people and sometimes from just a few words…
“Hey, pal, what’s up?”
“Something happened. Can’t go into it on the phone. You gonna’ be home tonight?”
His tone did come as a surprise to me. There was little in life Freddy couldn’t handle and the uncertainty in his voice
alarmed me. I wondered if he and Patty might be having problems.
“Home? Tonight? Sure, c’mon out.”
“About two hours.”
At about eight-thirty I saw the flash of headlights out by my garage. When I opened the front door I saw a gigantic Caddy
SUV in the driveway; the damn thing must have cost half as much as my first house. Freddy climbed out and walked to the
rear of the vehicle, and as he did so the rear deck rose high into the air. He looked into the rear compartment for a brief
second and then walked toward me. As he did so the deck lowered itself back down.
“What’s up?” I asked as he came through the door.
“I killed a guy,” he said. “Three times and he ain’t dead yet!”
“Wha... ?”
“Before I say anything else, what I say to you is protected free speech, or sumptin’, aint it?”
“If you’re talking about lawyer client privilege, then yes it is. But do you really think you have to worry about that?”
“No, I guess not. Sorry.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go down to the den, have a drink and you can tell me about your problem. I’m anxious to hear
how you could kill somebody three times and find out why he still isn’t dead.”
“You think I’m jokin’?
As I said, Freddy is a tough guy, but I could see the fear in his eyes and hear the uncertainty in his voice.
Over a single malt he began his tale.
“You should never keep an employee more than three years, or so,” he said.
“You know, you’re right,” I replied. “Every secretary I ever had… ”
“Excuse me,” he interrupted, “this is my story.”
“Sorry.”
“After three years they begin to think they’re indispensible, that they’re the boss. Anyways, I have this guy workin’ for me.
Alex. Some kind of Romanian/Transylvanian dude, immigrant, you know. And he did a good job. Took care of everything I
asked him to do and it freed me up to do my other stuff.”
I nodded in understanding.
“Okay. So look, Ronnie, you’re a smart guy and I’m sure you know everything I do ain't always kosher. Sometimes I cut
corners, maybe don’t declare everything Uncle Sam says I should, and, you know, like that.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“I know, but still. So this guy Alex is handling all kinds of shit for me and he knows what’s goin’ on. I mean, I’m payin’ him
good, and all, so what’s the problem?”
“What is the problem?”
“Last night he comes into the office actin’ like a big shot, and all, and he says he thinks he oughta be a partner. No, that
ain't right. He practically demands I make him a partner! First, I’m like ‘Whoa, where is this comin’ from?’ But he don’t stop
and eventually I’m startin’ to lose my temper. Finally I tell him to go shit in his hat and pull it down over his ears.”
“My guess is he didn’t take it well.’
“You got no idea. Now he starts screamin’ and actin’ like a nut and foamin’ at the mouth. No joke, foamin’ at the mouth
like he’s got rabies, or sumptin’. So I get up and tell ‘im I’m gonna’ throw him out of the joint. This isn’t goin’ to be a
problem ‘cause he’s a little guy, maybe five two and a hunnert ten. He pulls a gun.”
“Jesus.”
“You got that right. So we’re standin’ there, face to face, and he’s still foamin’ at the mouth. Then he pulls the trigger!”
When Freddy came in and told me he killed somebody three times I thought he might be exaggerating some circumstance
in which he found himself. Something we could work our way out of. But now he‘s telling me this guy took a shot at him.
“He shot you?” I asked in disbelief.
“No. But he tried to. But the asshole didn’t realize he left the safety on. Before he could figure out what happened I cold-
cocked him with a putter I keep in the office.”
He stopped speaking then and I thought I saw a shudder pass through him.
“I’ve been in a lotta fights,” he continued, “but that was all; fights. Nobody ever really got hurt. This guy I hurt. The fuckin’
putter took him in the temple with the blade and actually stuck there inside his head. BOOM! He goes down like a sack of
shit and I can see right away he ain't breathin’ no more. Dead as a fuckin’ trout in the supermarket.”
He paused here as he gathered his thoughts. I waited without offering anything; I remained speechless.
“You think you’re a tough guy,” he went on, “but geez, killin’ someone? I don’t know what to do. I pick up the gun, snap
off the safety — why, I don’t know — and sit with my head in my hands behind my desk. So I’m sittin’ there for a coupla’
minutes trying to figure things out, when I hear a noise. It’s him. He ain't dead no more.”
Now he looked up straight into my eyes and he says, “I know, you figure he wasn’t dead to begin with. But believe me,
dead as a doornail.”
He knew my thoughts.
“So he’s comin’ at me and he’s like wild. His eyes are all glazed over, his mouth is wide open and he’s snapping these huge
teeth. It looked like he wanted to chew me up.”
“So what did you do?”
“Shot the bastard. Right through his left eye. There’s a big bang, all smoke, and shit, and the back of his head explodes all
over the far wall. Blood, bone, all kinds of shit; brains too, I guess. But you know it’s funny how your brain works. You’d
think I’d be all upset, and all, but I wasn’t. I knew the prick was dead before I shot him, so now I’m wonderin’ how come
he came to? So I stand there and look at him for a minute. And then, guess what?”
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“He opens the only eye he has left and stares right at me. I tell ya’ I nearly shit my pants. He’s lookin’ at me, and then he
growls, snaps at me with these big teeth, and starts to get up.”
I felt the need to interrupt here.
“Freddy, you’re trying to tell me this played out in the precise manner you’re telling it. This man lay there literally dead; he
couldn’t have been wounded, or something?”
“The back of his fucking head exploded and most of his brains splattered on the wall, if that ain't dead I don’t know what
is.”
“Go on.”
“I do what I gotta’ do; I shoot him again, only this time I shoot him in the heart. Funny, not a lot of blood this time,” he
added as an aside. “You’ve never been to my office,” he continued, “have you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It ain’t like a real office, you know, in a building, an all. It’s a small warehouse where I park some of my trucks and stuff
with a little office in the back. So this guy is layin’ there and before he can get up again, I go out to the warehouse and
pick up a piece of tarp and some duct tape. I get back into the office just as he begins to stir. Before he can start snappin’
and growlin’ I roll him up in the tarp and tape the whole thing up solid. Like I said, he’s a little guy and he ain't so strong,
so he wiggles around growling like a son-of-a-bitch — but that’s all he can do, wiggle.”
At this point he took a long pull on the scotch and looked for my reaction.
I also took this opportunity to sip my drink and see if I could digest this weird tale.
“Look, Freddy,” I said, “This is too strange to be true. In essence what you’re telling me is this guy turned into some kind
of Zombie.”
“I told you he was Romanian or something… ”
“Be that as it may, this just can’t be real. Now, don’t be offended, but have you been having strange dreams, or maybe
ingesting some strange chemicals… ”
“I don’t use dope!”
“It doesn’t have to be dope. Are you using any new medications, or anything? ‘Cause I have to tell you, this sounds like
some sort of hallucination.”
Freddy’s eyes told me he wasn’t pleased with my interpretation of the facts as he related them. He sat there for a quiet,
unhappy moment, and then he nodded his head in response to some internal dialogue.
“Okay,” he said with resignation heavy in his voice, “you don’t believe me. I can’t blame you. On the way out here I began
to doubt it myself.”
I took this as a good sign. It seemed he might be ready to question the reality of the situation. If he doubted…
He interrupted my train of thought when he said, “Except for the rolling around in the back of the Caddy.”
Now my eyes lit up. "Rolling around in the back of your SUV?” I questioned. “You mean to tell me you brought this body
out here to my house?”
“Ain’t a body, I told you. He’s still alive.”
He challenged me by looking me straight into my disbelieving eyes, and said, “C’mon outside. I’ll show you.”
With this he put down his drink and walked up the stairs.
I followed him outside and watched as he activated the gizmo on his key ring; the rear deck of the SUV creaked open with
maddening slowness.
“Take a look. Only don’t get too close.”
Again the challenging look.
I have to tell you, I live in a normal world. One of facts, of never questioning reality, and with a strong grounding in the law
where everything is laid out in precise terms; no ambiguity, no foolishness, and no Twilight Zone happenings.
But still, I approached the back of the vehicle with care.
I took a deep breath and looked into the back of his SUV. Sure enough, it was as he said. I saw a blue plastic tarp rolled
into a tight ball and taped shut with about a mile of duct tape. I stood there with mouth agape for a brief moment and
then the damn thing began to wriggle about. As it did so I heard muffled grunting coming from inside the tarp. I’m telling
you, at first it startled me and I jumped back, but then reason prevailed and I recognized this for the hoax being played
out before me.
But then my heart fluttered!
“Jesus Christ, Freddy,” I shouted, “Your buddy’s suffocating in there. No wonder he’s wriggling around. He can’t breathe.”
I reached into the rear compartment and was about to grab the poor guy, when Freddy pulled me away.
“This ain’t no joke, Ronnie. Leave him alone. You want to see him; I’ll show him to you. But not out here. Somebody might
see us.”
“Freddy!”
“Not out here!”
“Okay, but we have to hurry. You really will kill him.”
I hurried to the garage door, punched in the code, and waited with heart pounding anxiety as the overhead door inched
up. As I waited Freddy jumped into the SUV, started it, and when the door was raised he pulled into Jeannie’s vacant spot.
Once inside, he shut off the motor, jumped from the cab, and shouted, “Close the door, first.”
As I set the door on its downward motion Freddy ambled to the rear of the vehicle.
“Freddy, hurry up!”
“Relax, he answered as he reached inside the vehicle, and then with one well coordinated tug, dragged the body out and
let it slump to the floor. It landed with a sickening THUMP and lay in a twitching mass.
“Freddy,” I shouted, “are you nuts? Take the tape off so he can breathe.”
“Just a minute,” he said as he looked around the garage. In the corner by the door he spied a short length of two-by-four.
He picked up the piece of wood, walked to the still quivering mass, and like a golfer hitting a short iron delivered a
crunching blow to the area of the man’s head. Through the heavy tarp and the thick binding of tape came a sickening,
muffled crunch, and the body lay still.
At this point I began to fear for my friend’s sanity. I knew he was a tough guy and he could handle himself, but I never
suspected this level of cruelty. And, I have to admit, I considered I might be in danger, as well.
Then without emotion, he said, “You want to see? Take a look.” He removed a small, razor type, box cutter from his
pocket, and slashed at the tape. It took a scant minute for him to pull the tarp down from the man’s head and reveal the
bloody mess inside. That the man lay dead, there could now be no question; I figured the final blow killed him. I summoned
what strength I could and knelt to examine the remains.
“Careful,” Freddy cautioned.
I gave him a look implying ‘You have to be kidding, he’s dead’ and with queasiness never before experienced, I lifted and
turned the man’s head. Freddy was right about a few things; one of the man’s eye sockets sat there blank and empty and
a good portion of the back of his head was nowhere in attendance. Thick rivulets of matted hair hung down to his collar,
and the temple on the left side of his head showed a deep, concave, indentation with shattered pieces of bone blood-glued
to his scalp.
I looked up at Freddy, who, still clutching the bloody piece of wood stood at the ready.
“How could... ?” I go no farther.
The man, though still bound from shoulder to heel, rolled his head to the side and snarled and snapped at me as he
uttered a mournful moan. His teeth missed flesh, but did manage to catch hold of my sleeve. Like a man sucking in a string
of spaghetti he pulled my arm toward him. Too frightened to resist, I could only kneel there and watch his bloody teeth
work their inexorable way toward my trembling hand.
Freddy, as calm as a boy swatting at a bug, delivered another blow to the remains of the man’s head while I fell to the
floor giving up my pizza and scotch.
“Believe me now?” he asked, confident of the answer.
Back inside the house we both hit the bottle of scotch again.
“So?” Freddy inquired.
“So? I don’t know, so. This is unreal, unnatural. You read stories like this all the time. But that’s it, they’re just stories.
We have something here… I don’t know!”
“Told you.”
“Hey, hey,” I said with mounting anger, “don’t get cute. Yeah, you told me, but I don’t think you believed it yourself. That’
s why you brought him to me. To test your sanity. To see if you were still in touch with reality.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he answered with contrition, “but what are we going to do?”
“What can we do? Call the police, that’s what we’ll do.”
Now Freddy had the fire in his voice.
“No way, no fuckin’ way!”
“What do you mean, no way? Way!”
“Bullshit!” He spat out. “What happens if the cops come and then the son-of-a-bitch is finally dead? Then what? Then we
have a body I shot, beat to death, mangled almost beyond recognition, and all I have in my defense is a cockamamie story
backed up by my best friend. I don’t care what your reputation is, nobody is gonna’ believe us. No way, we ain’t calling the
cops.”
“Your best friend will help you move a body” went through my mind.
“You have a point,” I admitted. “So what do you think we should do? You want to rent a boat, weigh him down with some
cinder blocks, and drop him in the Sound.”
“Nope, no good.” Freddy offered.
“Wood chipper?” I volunteered, but just half in jest.
“No. No good either.”
“Why not?”
“Because in the stories these things always come back. If you chop ‘em up the parts reassemble; if you burn ‘em the
smoke re-forms into a body and that gets you; if you just bury ‘em one night a hand sticks up out of the grave and the
shit hits the fan again. We gotta’ think of something permanent.”
"Freddy, all that stuff happens in stories, this is real life.”
“Yeah, real life, but with a real zombie.”
He had a point.
“What about the cops,” I asked. “Anybody going to report this guy missing? Family, co-workers… ”
“I don’t know. But if they do come around all they’ll do is ask questions at first. Soon as they leave they’ll be one hell of a
fire so no matter how good their forensics are, there ain’t gonna’ be nothin’ left.”
“Okay, we have that covered, but what do we do with our home grown Dracula?
“You’re the smart one. Think of something.”
I thought of something.
We learned something about garden carts that night; if you try to push one over uneven ground it’s a hell of a chore. But
if you pull it, it goes a lot easier.
Alex still quivered and snorted when we dumped him in then cart, but before he came to from the last crowning we re-
sealed him in his Home Depot shroud so he didn’t present too much of a problem. After all, in life or whatever, he only
weighed a little over a hundred pounds.
“You sure this will work?” Freddy, holding the rake and shovel in his hands, asked for about the sixth time.
“Hey,” I answered, “who’s the smart one?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
Going around the garage to the back yard went well, we were on cement. But once we entered the path I took each
morning, things bogged down until we learned the pulling trick; then it went smooth as a baby’s ass.
We wound our way through the woods until we came to my new neighbor’s property.
“Where?”
“Over there.” I pointed to where the workmen buried the dry well earlier in the day.
“How deep?”
“Not deep, I don’t think. Maybe two feet.”
As I held the quaking mass of Alex still with the business head of the rake, Freddy began digging in the area I indicated.
Before long I heard the scraping sound of steel on cement.
“Got it all cleaned off. Is it heavy?”
“I don’t know. Give it a shot.”
Through the cloud shrouded night I heard a grunt, then another, then, “heavy! Fuckin’ heavy. You gotta’ give me a hand.”
“What am I going to do about Alex?”
“Leave him be. What’s he gonna’ do, climb up and run away?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
The cart was deep and we had Alex almost folded in half, so Freddy told it true; chances were he wouldn’t run away. I
trudged through the loose soil and together we managed to get the cap off the dry well. It took some prying and we bent
the shovel, but in the end we got the job done. Then back to Alex. Freddy grabbed one end and I grabbed the other, and
although he squirmed like a well-buttered eel we managed to hold on.
“On three,” I told Freddy. “One, two, and THREEEEE!” With nary a sound except for the noise of the heavy plastic tarp
scraping the side of the dry well, Alex slid through the opening and fell to the bottom.
We replaced the cap, Freddy re-filled the hole, I raked it smooth so no sign of our landscaping remained.
Back over yet another dram of scotch, I re-assured Freddy.
“You felt the weight of the cap, it took both of us to lift it. Yeah, he’s a zombie, but he didn’t seem to possess any
inordinate strength. So with the heavy cap, not to mention a couple of feet of dirt on top of it, believe me, he isn’t going
anywhere.”
“Okay, but you have to promise me…”
***
It’s freezing out there,” Jeannie reminded me. “You’re going for your walk in this weather? Aren’t you getting just a little
bit compulsive… ”
Yeah, I no longer walk only when the weather permits. I go every day. After all, I did promise Freddy. I trudge through the
snow, the sleet, or whatever, and stop for a moment and look in the Ludwig’s yard. At least a portion of their yard. And if
things are undisturbed, as they have always been thus far, then I continue on so Jeannie won’t suspect anything.
To date it’s been fine, but if the time comes when I see a hole in a certain area of the back yard I’ll call Freddy and he’ll get
out of town, real fast.
As a matter-of-fact, I guess I should go with him.
A friend will help you move, your best friend will help you move – a body!
I heard that joke on HBO, or maybe on one of those Comedy Central specials and at first it made me laugh, but then on
reflection I realized the profound truth to that statement; and then it came to me it all depended on your place in the
social strata.
Now, this is going to sound chauvinistic, and it probably is, but over the years I’ve come to believe the people in the lower
classes form a stronger bond than those in the higher rankings. Initially the intensity of the affection in the upper echelon
may be the same as in the lower, but when push comes to shove, when inconvenience — not to mention outright danger
— comes into play, well then, the strength of the relationship in the upper tier seems to decrease in inverse proportion to
the rate of the imposition.
True, I can’t present this theorem as a mathematical certainty, but still I think it maintains certain validity.
I grew up in Queens County, in New York City, and we were a family of modest means in a community of like individuals. No
fancy prep schools here and most of us didn’t qualify for admittance to the Prestige Schools like Stuyvesant, or The Bronx
High School of Science, or Brooklyn Tech. No, it was the local grammar school, then off to the local high school, and then
for a few of us, to the closest affordable college. But while the residents of our neighborhood were denied admission to
the better schools because of our economic background, I think some of us were better prepared for the rigors of
everyday living.
Let me explain: In the so called lower class neighborhoods you learn about life real fast because it is in these areas most
crime is bred. I know this doesn’t come as a revelation to you, it shouldn’t, you’ve witnessed these results all your life;
poverty breeds crime. But there is one aspect to this circumstance that is beneficial; it’s called sink or swim, you learn to
adjust, to manage situations, to position yourself to stay out of harm’s way, or you suffer the consequences!
One of the first things you learn on the street (if you are an astute observer) is no one (except the deranged) really wants
to fight; it’s all about intimidation. Once you have this concept firmly in your grasp you no longer live with fear or
uncertainty. When you stand up to a bully — I don’t mean you put up your hands and say, “You wanna’ throw? Let’s
throw”. What I mean is when the intimidator sees you’re not intimidated and you will “throw” if provoked, he almost always
will back off.
This was a life lesson and it served me well in the business world.
In Saint Johns University I majored in Finance and while not at the top of my class, I did reasonably well. From there I went
to Brooklyn Law and did equally well; not great, but okay. I worked part-time in a local pharmacy and managed to maintain
my grades while doing so. The school work proved difficult, long hours of little more than tedium, but I had the drive and
support of my parents and through it all I managed to survive.
In law school I met Jeannie. She, like me, was an only child, but her father owned a small and profitable insurance agency,
so she enjoyed a school life of relative ease. Over the years we often joked about how her grades were so much better
than mine. I maintained mine would have been at least her equal were I not required to hold down a part time job — but I
knew the truth — her grades were better because she enjoyed more natural ability.
After we graduated and both passed the bar, we married.
As a graduation gift her parents generously gave us enough money to put down on a Brooklyn brownstone, and while
they were not thrilled about the location, they did maintain their distance so we could learn from our own mistakes. The
brownstone, a huge dowager from the late eighteen nineties, sat on Hicks street just a block from the East River. From
the upstairs parlor one got a glorious view of downtown Manhattan and the subway to the city lay at the end of our street.
They say luck is the residue of design, and this may well be true; but for us, luck was just luck, pure, undiluted, and to be
stumbled over. The house had been the longtime residence of an immigrant German family and they maintained it in
immaculate condition. As it always seems to happen, the children grew up and moved away and in the end the old couple
gave up the house and moved in with them. The market then was not what is now, and we were one step ahead of the
game. We thought it was cool, nothing else. A three story affair with an enormous basement, we loved the thought of
rattling around in all those rooms. And we knew the day would come when some of those rooms would be used as
bedrooms for children.
That never happened. As the years wore on we talked of adoption, but… but! Well, it’s all academic, for whatever reason,
spoken or unspoken, we never did adopt.
The house was big; we furnished it, lived in it, and enjoyed it.
***
After passing the bar, Jeannie secured a position with a small, but growing pharmaceutical firm. This was the era when ‘Big
Pharma’ began introducing a rash of new drugs while not so much concentrating on the drugs they already owned which
were about to go off patent. Jeannie’s firm saw the opportunity and leapt right in. They began manufacturing generic
versions of the top drugs. Yeah, the big companies fought like cats and dogs to maintain what they thought of as their
property, but the courts found against them and Jeannie’s firm flourished.
And as the firm flourished so did she.
As for me, after law school I took a position with a firm specializing in insurance matters. Big insurance matters! And this is
where my street training came into good use. Remember I said no one really wants to duke it out? This maxim is as valid
in industry as it is on the streets. And remember, also, I said the best way to handle a thug is to stare him down? Again,
industry and street share the same sentiments.
Nobody wants to fight and nobody wants to litigate!
With a bully you have to stand your ground and push him almost to the point where he’s certain a fight will ensue, but all
the while allow him the opportunity to walk away feeling like the winner without actual engaging in battle.
If you can accomplish this, you both win. You’ve stood your ground and protected your dignity and he walks away with
nothing in hand except a feeling of superiority. In essence this is what my job entailed; finding a compromise between
insurance giants letting them both walk away feeling good about themselves — with every one’s ass covered — and never
going to court to resolve matters.
Generated some good fees, I did, and they rewarded me well. Took me eight years, but finally I made partner.
Partner, this is another story. The word implies equality, but in reality it wasn’t so. The firm employing me sprung straight
out of the old boy network. In truth I could never figure out why they hired me, a kid from the streets who wouldn’t know
the Ivy League from the Justice League.
But hire me they did and it worked out well for all involved.
Sure, they treated me well and paid me well, but there were parties I couldn’t attend and clubs I could not join.
Time passes in a blink when there are no children to attend to, and one day many years later Jeannie came to me with a
financial statement in her hand. Because I did well we never had any need of the money she earned, so whatever didn’t go
into our savings account or portfolio went into her retirement account. First an ordinary I.R.A., then a Roth I.R.A. which
allowed you to shelter more of your money, and then different versions of 401k’s, which allowed you to protect yet even
more of your earnings while your company contributed an equal share.
When Jeannie showed me this statement which included the stock options she earned, the value exceeded one million
dollars!
And I wasn’t doing so bad either. As a matter-of-fact I did even better than she.
My salary far exceeded hers and my accountant saw to it that I, too, sheltered all I could. So whatever didn’t go into
savings and investments went into retirement plans of one sort, or another. When we got around to looking at my
package, we realized our net worth exceeded four million dollars, and that didn’t include the house. Over the years the
house we purchased for less than one hundred thousand dollars now increased in value to almost a million and a half.
“We’re millionaires,” Jeannie said.
“Yeah, so?”
“So, let’s retire.”
“We’re in our late forties, isn’t this a bit early for retirement?’
“I don’t mean retire, retire. I’m not looking forward to a gated community in Boca where you play golf all the time and I flirt
with the twenty-something tennis coach.”
“Then what do you mean? And it’s good to know about the tennis pro.”
“I mean retire from the jobs we both admit we’ve lost the passion for. Yes, you’re a partner, but they treat you like an
underling, and my company’s about to be swept up into a complicated merger that could render my talents meaningless.
There are things we could do in life.”
I never told Jeannie, but I did harbor a dream; I always wanted to write a novel. About what, I’m not sure. Maybe a
mystery with an insurance theme. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I just thought it would be fun to do.
“You know,” she continued, “I’ve become more involved in Cancer Care and they’ve been after me to take up a more active
role, maybe even Regional Director. I, I don’t know, I’m not happy, you’re not really happy, I just thought… ”
When we took a close look at things we realized we had few ties to New York City. Whatever friendships we maintained
over the years were superficial ones — almost all business related — and not ones to be missed. Our closest friends — a
boyhood friend of mine named Freddy, and his wife Patty — lived out on the south shore of Long Island, so there we set
our sights. But in the end we chose a small community on the north shore, only because it lay in a more isolated and less
touristy area.
It took about three years to sort things out, but in the end we settled in “Island Dunes” about mid-point between Mount
Sinai and Smithtown. We bought a good sized Colonial in an area of three acre zoning and settled in to enjoy our new
beginning. Jeannie realized her dream of working almost full time in the non-profit sector and I began my novel.
Sweet. We were still young, secure in our finances, and both following our dreams. Hey, what could go wrong?
As I said, my friend Freddy and I grew up in the same neighborhood and we shared many of the same values. Our careers
took us in separate directions and although we often went a good while without seeing each other, we still recognized the
bond between us.
Where I followed the path of education and a professional career Freddy followed a business model. A business model: a
euphemism for a job after high school.
He drove a ‘Roach Coach’.
For the uninitiated, a Roach Coach is one of those commissary trucks you see at construction sites. Coffee, rolls, bagels
and doughnuts in the morning and maybe some prepackaged sandwiches and cold drinks at lunchtime. Doesn’t sound like
much? It doesn’t. But it is. Those mini diners on wheels are extraordinarily profitable. So much so it takes a tough guy to
hold on to a specific location. In fact there were times when disputes were settled with baseball bats.
And Freddy could wield a baseball bat with the best of them.
Before long Freddy owned his own truck — then another, and another. When he finally sold the business, he’d
accumulated eight trucks and redeemed them for a sizable chunk of untaxed cash from a ‘Wise Guy’ wannabe.
From there he went into the wholesale food business.
New York City abounds in ethnic neighborhoods. And in each of these neighborhoods delis, bodegas, and thrift stores
spring from the earth like crocus in springtime; and like the crocus many of them never survive from year to year. They’re
‘Mom and Pops’, they do an all-cash business and seldom deal with legitimate wholesalers because of their lack of credit or
necessary licenses.
Freddy filled the void.
With off brand soda and juices, beers sometimes bought all cash from an otherwise legitimate wholesaler, close to out
dated cookies and snacks, and whatever sundries he could gather up, Freddy kept these immigrant entrepreneurs well
stocked. Before long he had fifteen cargo vans plying the city streets and raking in cash by the vanload. He made a lot of
money, but he wanted to go legit — at least partially so.
One day one of the beverage wholesalers he dealt with on a cash basis came to him. It seemed the man suffered a little
gambling problem and he needed a large influx of cash before his knees attracted the unhappy attention of some tire irons.
Now Freddy owned a legitimate business. Already servicing over three hundred accounts throughout Manhattan, the
Bronx, and Queens, he enjoyed an extraordinary base on which to begin expanding his empire.
He decided his first move would be to begin servicing the smaller Superettes and Supermarkets — the legitimate ones —
with his inventory of brand name beers and soda. Of course, they already did business with other distributors, but Freddy
could offer enhanced credit lines and he won many of them over.
But in doing this Freddy developed a problem.
Business was good — too good for one man to handle.
About two years before he bought the beer distributorship he hired a fellow to drive one of his vans. A Romanian-
Transylvanian immigrant named Alex. The man proved a hard worker and possessed good business sense. It wasn’t long
before Freddy relied more and more on him. He was ambitious and expanded his customer base by including bakeries,
Ninety-Nine cent stores, and even some gas stations to his list of customers.
Though wary of the man’s ambition, Freddy chose him to oversee his less than legitimate operation while he concentrated
on the more traditional.
Things went well. Freddy realized his dream. Hey, what could go wrong?
***
Our new house. The way the deal worked the developer bought up a tract of land — almost a thousand acres of scrub
pine, oak, and an occasional misdirected birch or black cherry — you choose the lot, the building design (with modifications
should you desire some), you waited almost a year, and then you were done.
The acreage ran in a narrow strip for almost a mile and I guess the units weren’t selling as fast as the developer hoped, so
a lot of the land remained unused. We thought this wonderful because even where the houses were built in close proximity
to one another there remained some deep woods between each plot. And for some reason the westernmost plots sold
much faster; so we chose a plot on the easternmost side. At first our nearest neighbor stood better than a quarter mile
away.
We moved in and soon developed a routine. Jeannie’s revolved around her charitable work; telephone calls, email, and
lunches filled her time and she reveled in it.
I developed my own routine. Over a course of two weeks, or so, I managed to lay out a path running behind the building
plots (but still well within the woods) and each morning — weather permitting — I’d hike from one end of the development
to the other. The entire round trip encompassed some two miles and took almost two hours. The reason it took so long?
Rough terrain and I walked at a pleasant pace. I’d started my novel so on each walk I’d plan what I intended to write about
later in the day. When I combined the walk, the plotting and the writing, with editing the previous day’s output, it ate up
most of my day.
It went well. I felt great. Hey, what could go wrong?
Then about three months after we moved in, as I began my walk I heard a huge rumbling from nearby. In fewer than five
minutes I discovered the plot next to ours had been sold and construction morning about to begin. The rumbling I heard
came from a bulldozer beginning to clear the land. At first we found the thought of having a neighbor so close by
distressing, but the woods were thick even in winter, and by spring they would be all but impenetrable.
I never knew much about home construction and I found it enjoyable watching the building grow as I continued my
morning jaunts. My path ran behind my new neighbor’s plot so I followed the procedure with increased interest.
Soon I came to know the General Contractor and many of the workmen and I found if I asked an intelligent question most
of them were happy to explain the machinations of their separate disciplines. The house grew and so did my appreciation
of their individual talents.
Before long the house sat almost finished. Then one day as I stopped to do my morning inspections I saw two deep holes
had been dug near the rear of the property and a trench led from the house to each of them.
“Dry wells”, one of the men explained as he pointed off to the side where two large concrete ‘spheres’ sat awaiting the
crane to lower them into place. Each of these forms stood about as tall as a man and were perforated with circular holes
from mid point to bottom. On the top I saw a cap, of sorts, which I thought might be for cleaning if a problem arose.
“Rain goes into the gutters,” the workman explained as he pointed to the almost completed house. “From there, down the
downspouts, through PCV pipes that we’ll lay in the trench, and then into the dry wells. Then little, by little, the rain drains
into the earth and doesn’t flood the street.”
The next day as I passed by I saw the dry wells in place.
“Just waitin’ for the cement to dry and then we’ll backfill the whole thing. Maybe lay some sod over it early next week.”
The next day, Friday, the holes were back filled and no trace of the dry wells could be seen.
***
“I killed a guy! Three times!”
***
On Thursday of that week Jeannie informed me she needed to drive to Utica, New York, for a special conference.
“Everybody gets to go to Vegas, or at least Miami, but where do I get to go? Utica! ” She informed me I would be on my
own for the weekend and if I possessed any brains I’d order out.
Just as I reached for the phone on Friday night, it began to ring.
“Hello?”
“Ronnie? Freddy.”
Freddy, my old pal Freddy. I hadn’t heard from him for a while so his call didn’t come as a complete surprise to me. But I
thought I detected something in his voice. You know people and sometimes from just a few words…
“Hey, pal, what’s up?”
“Something happened. Can’t go into it on the phone. You gonna’ be home tonight?”
His tone did come as a surprise to me. There was little in life Freddy couldn’t handle and the uncertainty in his voice
alarmed me. I wondered if he and Patty might be having problems.
“Home? Tonight? Sure, c’mon out.”
“About two hours.”
At about eight-thirty I saw the flash of headlights out by my garage. When I opened the front door I saw a gigantic Caddy
SUV in the driveway; the damn thing must have cost half as much as my first house. Freddy climbed out and walked to the
rear of the vehicle, and as he did so the rear deck rose high into the air. He looked into the rear compartment for a brief
second and then walked toward me. As he did so the deck lowered itself back down.
“What’s up?” I asked as he came through the door.
“I killed a guy,” he said. “Three times and he ain’t dead yet!”
“Wha... ?”
“Before I say anything else, what I say to you is protected free speech, or sumptin’, aint it?”
“If you’re talking about lawyer client privilege, then yes it is. But do you really think you have to worry about that?”
“No, I guess not. Sorry.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go down to the den, have a drink and you can tell me about your problem. I’m anxious to hear
how you could kill somebody three times and find out why he still isn’t dead.”
“You think I’m jokin’?
As I said, Freddy is a tough guy, but I could see the fear in his eyes and hear the uncertainty in his voice.
Over a single malt he began his tale.
“You should never keep an employee more than three years, or so,” he said.
“You know, you’re right,” I replied. “Every secretary I ever had… ”
“Excuse me,” he interrupted, “this is my story.”
“Sorry.”
“After three years they begin to think they’re indispensible, that they’re the boss. Anyways, I have this guy workin’ for me.
Alex. Some kind of Romanian/Transylvanian dude, immigrant, you know. And he did a good job. Took care of everything I
asked him to do and it freed me up to do my other stuff.”
I nodded in understanding.
“Okay. So look, Ronnie, you’re a smart guy and I’m sure you know everything I do ain't always kosher. Sometimes I cut
corners, maybe don’t declare everything Uncle Sam says I should, and, you know, like that.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“I know, but still. So this guy Alex is handling all kinds of shit for me and he knows what’s goin’ on. I mean, I’m payin’ him
good, and all, so what’s the problem?”
“What is the problem?”
“Last night he comes into the office actin’ like a big shot, and all, and he says he thinks he oughta be a partner. No, that
ain't right. He practically demands I make him a partner! First, I’m like ‘Whoa, where is this comin’ from?’ But he don’t stop
and eventually I’m startin’ to lose my temper. Finally I tell him to go shit in his hat and pull it down over his ears.”
“My guess is he didn’t take it well.’
“You got no idea. Now he starts screamin’ and actin’ like a nut and foamin’ at the mouth. No joke, foamin’ at the mouth
like he’s got rabies, or sumptin’. So I get up and tell ‘im I’m gonna’ throw him out of the joint. This isn’t goin’ to be a
problem ‘cause he’s a little guy, maybe five two and a hunnert ten. He pulls a gun.”
“Jesus.”
“You got that right. So we’re standin’ there, face to face, and he’s still foamin’ at the mouth. Then he pulls the trigger!”
When Freddy came in and told me he killed somebody three times I thought he might be exaggerating some circumstance
in which he found himself. Something we could work our way out of. But now he‘s telling me this guy took a shot at him.
“He shot you?” I asked in disbelief.
“No. But he tried to. But the asshole didn’t realize he left the safety on. Before he could figure out what happened I cold-
cocked him with a putter I keep in the office.”
He stopped speaking then and I thought I saw a shudder pass through him.
“I’ve been in a lotta fights,” he continued, “but that was all; fights. Nobody ever really got hurt. This guy I hurt. The fuckin’
putter took him in the temple with the blade and actually stuck there inside his head. BOOM! He goes down like a sack of
shit and I can see right away he ain't breathin’ no more. Dead as a fuckin’ trout in the supermarket.”
He paused here as he gathered his thoughts. I waited without offering anything; I remained speechless.
“You think you’re a tough guy,” he went on, “but geez, killin’ someone? I don’t know what to do. I pick up the gun, snap
off the safety — why, I don’t know — and sit with my head in my hands behind my desk. So I’m sittin’ there for a coupla’
minutes trying to figure things out, when I hear a noise. It’s him. He ain't dead no more.”
Now he looked up straight into my eyes and he says, “I know, you figure he wasn’t dead to begin with. But believe me,
dead as a doornail.”
He knew my thoughts.
“So he’s comin’ at me and he’s like wild. His eyes are all glazed over, his mouth is wide open and he’s snapping these huge
teeth. It looked like he wanted to chew me up.”
“So what did you do?”
“Shot the bastard. Right through his left eye. There’s a big bang, all smoke, and shit, and the back of his head explodes all
over the far wall. Blood, bone, all kinds of shit; brains too, I guess. But you know it’s funny how your brain works. You’d
think I’d be all upset, and all, but I wasn’t. I knew the prick was dead before I shot him, so now I’m wonderin’ how come
he came to? So I stand there and look at him for a minute. And then, guess what?”
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“He opens the only eye he has left and stares right at me. I tell ya’ I nearly shit my pants. He’s lookin’ at me, and then he
growls, snaps at me with these big teeth, and starts to get up.”
I felt the need to interrupt here.
“Freddy, you’re trying to tell me this played out in the precise manner you’re telling it. This man lay there literally dead; he
couldn’t have been wounded, or something?”
“The back of his fucking head exploded and most of his brains splattered on the wall, if that ain't dead I don’t know what
is.”
“Go on.”
“I do what I gotta’ do; I shoot him again, only this time I shoot him in the heart. Funny, not a lot of blood this time,” he
added as an aside. “You’ve never been to my office,” he continued, “have you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It ain’t like a real office, you know, in a building, an all. It’s a small warehouse where I park some of my trucks and stuff
with a little office in the back. So this guy is layin’ there and before he can get up again, I go out to the warehouse and
pick up a piece of tarp and some duct tape. I get back into the office just as he begins to stir. Before he can start snappin’
and growlin’ I roll him up in the tarp and tape the whole thing up solid. Like I said, he’s a little guy and he ain't so strong,
so he wiggles around growling like a son-of-a-bitch — but that’s all he can do, wiggle.”
At this point he took a long pull on the scotch and looked for my reaction.
I also took this opportunity to sip my drink and see if I could digest this weird tale.
“Look, Freddy,” I said, “This is too strange to be true. In essence what you’re telling me is this guy turned into some kind
of Zombie.”
“I told you he was Romanian or something… ”
“Be that as it may, this just can’t be real. Now, don’t be offended, but have you been having strange dreams, or maybe
ingesting some strange chemicals… ”
“I don’t use dope!”
“It doesn’t have to be dope. Are you using any new medications, or anything? ‘Cause I have to tell you, this sounds like
some sort of hallucination.”
Freddy’s eyes told me he wasn’t pleased with my interpretation of the facts as he related them. He sat there for a quiet,
unhappy moment, and then he nodded his head in response to some internal dialogue.
“Okay,” he said with resignation heavy in his voice, “you don’t believe me. I can’t blame you. On the way out here I began
to doubt it myself.”
I took this as a good sign. It seemed he might be ready to question the reality of the situation. If he doubted…
He interrupted my train of thought when he said, “Except for the rolling around in the back of the Caddy.”
Now my eyes lit up. "Rolling around in the back of your SUV?” I questioned. “You mean to tell me you brought this body
out here to my house?”
“Ain’t a body, I told you. He’s still alive.”
He challenged me by looking me straight into my disbelieving eyes, and said, “C’mon outside. I’ll show you.”
With this he put down his drink and walked up the stairs.
I followed him outside and watched as he activated the gizmo on his key ring; the rear deck of the SUV creaked open with
maddening slowness.
“Take a look. Only don’t get too close.”
Again the challenging look.
I have to tell you, I live in a normal world. One of facts, of never questioning reality, and with a strong grounding in the law
where everything is laid out in precise terms; no ambiguity, no foolishness, and no Twilight Zone happenings.
But still, I approached the back of the vehicle with care.
I took a deep breath and looked into the back of his SUV. Sure enough, it was as he said. I saw a blue plastic tarp rolled
into a tight ball and taped shut with about a mile of duct tape. I stood there with mouth agape for a brief moment and
then the damn thing began to wriggle about. As it did so I heard muffled grunting coming from inside the tarp. I’m telling
you, at first it startled me and I jumped back, but then reason prevailed and I recognized this for the hoax being played
out before me.
But then my heart fluttered!
“Jesus Christ, Freddy,” I shouted, “Your buddy’s suffocating in there. No wonder he’s wriggling around. He can’t breathe.”
I reached into the rear compartment and was about to grab the poor guy, when Freddy pulled me away.
“This ain’t no joke, Ronnie. Leave him alone. You want to see him; I’ll show him to you. But not out here. Somebody might
see us.”
“Freddy!”
“Not out here!”
“Okay, but we have to hurry. You really will kill him.”
I hurried to the garage door, punched in the code, and waited with heart pounding anxiety as the overhead door inched
up. As I waited Freddy jumped into the SUV, started it, and when the door was raised he pulled into Jeannie’s vacant spot.
Once inside, he shut off the motor, jumped from the cab, and shouted, “Close the door, first.”
As I set the door on its downward motion Freddy ambled to the rear of the vehicle.
“Freddy, hurry up!”
“Relax, he answered as he reached inside the vehicle, and then with one well coordinated tug, dragged the body out and
let it slump to the floor. It landed with a sickening THUMP and lay in a twitching mass.
“Freddy,” I shouted, “are you nuts? Take the tape off so he can breathe.”
“Just a minute,” he said as he looked around the garage. In the corner by the door he spied a short length of two-by-four.
He picked up the piece of wood, walked to the still quivering mass, and like a golfer hitting a short iron delivered a
crunching blow to the area of the man’s head. Through the heavy tarp and the thick binding of tape came a sickening,
muffled crunch, and the body lay still.
At this point I began to fear for my friend’s sanity. I knew he was a tough guy and he could handle himself, but I never
suspected this level of cruelty. And, I have to admit, I considered I might be in danger, as well.
Then without emotion, he said, “You want to see? Take a look.” He removed a small, razor type, box cutter from his
pocket, and slashed at the tape. It took a scant minute for him to pull the tarp down from the man’s head and reveal the
bloody mess inside. That the man lay dead, there could now be no question; I figured the final blow killed him. I summoned
what strength I could and knelt to examine the remains.
“Careful,” Freddy cautioned.
I gave him a look implying ‘You have to be kidding, he’s dead’ and with queasiness never before experienced, I lifted and
turned the man’s head. Freddy was right about a few things; one of the man’s eye sockets sat there blank and empty and
a good portion of the back of his head was nowhere in attendance. Thick rivulets of matted hair hung down to his collar,
and the temple on the left side of his head showed a deep, concave, indentation with shattered pieces of bone blood-glued
to his scalp.
I looked up at Freddy, who, still clutching the bloody piece of wood stood at the ready.
“How could... ?” I go no farther.
The man, though still bound from shoulder to heel, rolled his head to the side and snarled and snapped at me as he
uttered a mournful moan. His teeth missed flesh, but did manage to catch hold of my sleeve. Like a man sucking in a string
of spaghetti he pulled my arm toward him. Too frightened to resist, I could only kneel there and watch his bloody teeth
work their inexorable way toward my trembling hand.
Freddy, as calm as a boy swatting at a bug, delivered another blow to the remains of the man’s head while I fell to the
floor giving up my pizza and scotch.
“Believe me now?” he asked, confident of the answer.
Back inside the house we both hit the bottle of scotch again.
“So?” Freddy inquired.
“So? I don’t know, so. This is unreal, unnatural. You read stories like this all the time. But that’s it, they’re just stories.
We have something here… I don’t know!”
“Told you.”
“Hey, hey,” I said with mounting anger, “don’t get cute. Yeah, you told me, but I don’t think you believed it yourself. That’
s why you brought him to me. To test your sanity. To see if you were still in touch with reality.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he answered with contrition, “but what are we going to do?”
“What can we do? Call the police, that’s what we’ll do.”
Now Freddy had the fire in his voice.
“No way, no fuckin’ way!”
“What do you mean, no way? Way!”
“Bullshit!” He spat out. “What happens if the cops come and then the son-of-a-bitch is finally dead? Then what? Then we
have a body I shot, beat to death, mangled almost beyond recognition, and all I have in my defense is a cockamamie story
backed up by my best friend. I don’t care what your reputation is, nobody is gonna’ believe us. No way, we ain’t calling the
cops.”
“Your best friend will help you move a body” went through my mind.
“You have a point,” I admitted. “So what do you think we should do? You want to rent a boat, weigh him down with some
cinder blocks, and drop him in the Sound.”
“Nope, no good.” Freddy offered.
“Wood chipper?” I volunteered, but just half in jest.
“No. No good either.”
“Why not?”
“Because in the stories these things always come back. If you chop ‘em up the parts reassemble; if you burn ‘em the
smoke re-forms into a body and that gets you; if you just bury ‘em one night a hand sticks up out of the grave and the
shit hits the fan again. We gotta’ think of something permanent.”
"Freddy, all that stuff happens in stories, this is real life.”
“Yeah, real life, but with a real zombie.”
He had a point.
“What about the cops,” I asked. “Anybody going to report this guy missing? Family, co-workers… ”
“I don’t know. But if they do come around all they’ll do is ask questions at first. Soon as they leave they’ll be one hell of a
fire so no matter how good their forensics are, there ain’t gonna’ be nothin’ left.”
“Okay, we have that covered, but what do we do with our home grown Dracula?
“You’re the smart one. Think of something.”
I thought of something.
We learned something about garden carts that night; if you try to push one over uneven ground it’s a hell of a chore. But
if you pull it, it goes a lot easier.
Alex still quivered and snorted when we dumped him in then cart, but before he came to from the last crowning we re-
sealed him in his Home Depot shroud so he didn’t present too much of a problem. After all, in life or whatever, he only
weighed a little over a hundred pounds.
“You sure this will work?” Freddy, holding the rake and shovel in his hands, asked for about the sixth time.
“Hey,” I answered, “who’s the smart one?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
Going around the garage to the back yard went well, we were on cement. But once we entered the path I took each
morning, things bogged down until we learned the pulling trick; then it went smooth as a baby’s ass.
We wound our way through the woods until we came to my new neighbor’s property.
“Where?”
“Over there.” I pointed to where the workmen buried the dry well earlier in the day.
“How deep?”
“Not deep, I don’t think. Maybe two feet.”
As I held the quaking mass of Alex still with the business head of the rake, Freddy began digging in the area I indicated.
Before long I heard the scraping sound of steel on cement.
“Got it all cleaned off. Is it heavy?”
“I don’t know. Give it a shot.”
Through the cloud shrouded night I heard a grunt, then another, then, “heavy! Fuckin’ heavy. You gotta’ give me a hand.”
“What am I going to do about Alex?”
“Leave him be. What’s he gonna’ do, climb up and run away?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
The cart was deep and we had Alex almost folded in half, so Freddy told it true; chances were he wouldn’t run away. I
trudged through the loose soil and together we managed to get the cap off the dry well. It took some prying and we bent
the shovel, but in the end we got the job done. Then back to Alex. Freddy grabbed one end and I grabbed the other, and
although he squirmed like a well-buttered eel we managed to hold on.
“On three,” I told Freddy. “One, two, and THREEEEE!” With nary a sound except for the noise of the heavy plastic tarp
scraping the side of the dry well, Alex slid through the opening and fell to the bottom.
We replaced the cap, Freddy re-filled the hole, I raked it smooth so no sign of our landscaping remained.
Back over yet another dram of scotch, I re-assured Freddy.
“You felt the weight of the cap, it took both of us to lift it. Yeah, he’s a zombie, but he didn’t seem to possess any
inordinate strength. So with the heavy cap, not to mention a couple of feet of dirt on top of it, believe me, he isn’t going
anywhere.”
“Okay, but you have to promise me…”
***
It’s freezing out there,” Jeannie reminded me. “You’re going for your walk in this weather? Aren’t you getting just a little
bit compulsive… ”
Yeah, I no longer walk only when the weather permits. I go every day. After all, I did promise Freddy. I trudge through the
snow, the sleet, or whatever, and stop for a moment and look in the Ludwig’s yard. At least a portion of their yard. And if
things are undisturbed, as they have always been thus far, then I continue on so Jeannie won’t suspect anything.
To date it’s been fine, but if the time comes when I see a hole in a certain area of the back yard I’ll call Freddy and he’ll get
out of town, real fast.
As a matter-of-fact, I guess I should go with him.
Michael Dennis McDermott
