David Bishop - The Original Alibi

He just stared at me. Eventually, stupid fosters its own punishment. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go outside. Down by the surf.”

“I’m not going out there with you.”

I poked him in the belly with the barrel end of his gun. It was rude of me, but he brought the gun into our conversation and he might have planned to use it for more than stomach poking.

“If you plan to die defending your home, this place ain’t worth it.”

“Cory’s a friend.”

“Would your attitude change if you knew he was dead?”

“Dead?” He turned slowly in a circle, his head shaking, and his hands on his hips when they weren’t jabbing the air to punctuate what he said. “I don’t believe you. No. I just saw him last night. We had beers. He split around ten.” Quirt put his palms together and blew into the crevice between his hands as if they were cold. Then he turned back the other way as if unwinding his first turn. “No. He can’t be dead.”

I took out my cell phone and brought up the picture of Cory lying in the surf. Wet and cold, only Cory no longer felt the wet or the cold. The hole in his forehead meant nothing good other than the politicians would be leaving him alone because Cory Jackson would not be voting in the next election. I handed Quirt the phone.

He looked at it. His other arm dropped to his side. His chin touched his chest. “We was brothers, man. He’s my kid brother, different fathers.”

“Sit down, Quirt. I’m sorry to bring the message so hard. I didn’t know.”

“When?” He sagged down onto one end of the soiled brown couch.

“Last night. He was found early this morning. In the surf, down from the restaurant where he worked, not far from where he claimed he saw Eddie Whittaker kill his woman.”

“Why? After all this time. Why?”

I sat in the blue chair to the side of the couch “I assume by ‘after all this time,’ you meant time after the Whittaker thing. Right?”

Quirt just looked at me. I tried to break his malaise. “Your brother’s dead. Whoever framed Eddie Whittaker appears to be sweeping his trail clean. I’m after that son of a bitch. Will you help me or are you going to clam up and help the guy who killed your brother?”

“Cory lied. He didn’t see nobody kill that woman.”

“First off. Did you or Cory know Eddie Whittaker before all this happened? Ever see him? Have a run in with him? Anything like that?”

“I didn’t know the dude from nobody, man.”

“What about Cory?”

“Far as I knew, Cory didn’t know the guy. I knew everybody Cory knew. If there’d been a hassle between Cory and this Eddie Whittaker, Cory would have filled me in. No. No way. We didn’t know him from Adam.”

“Okay. So Cory was paid to lie. Who paid him? Who wanted Eddie Whittaker jailed?”

“I got no clue, man. Listen, I need a beer. You want one?”

I nodded and followed him to a white Kelvinator that was old enough to be gaining value as an antique. While we twisted the tops off the beers, I asked, “Who did Cory say paid him?”

“He didn’t know. He was sitting on the beach one night. Back then, he did that a lot. On a log that had washed up on shore. He heard a voice that told him if he turned around he’d die. Right there, man, killed for just turning the fuck around.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man. Wouldn’t be no woman. Would it?”

“You’re sure?”

“Hey, I wasn’t there. Cory said it was a dude. That’s all I know.”

“Okay, so what did Cory do?”

“He didn’t turn around. I’ll tell ya that. The voice told him which house and what time to be there and on what night. That he would see a man kill a woman inside. Shoot her dead. That Cory should go to the cops after he saw the woman’s picture in the paper. He told Cory the woman’s name, but I don’t recall it. He handed Cory a picture of Eddie Whittaker and shined a flashlight over Cory’s shoulder so he could see the picture. He told him to study it and remember the man’s face. He even pointed out a few facial features that would help Cory remember the dude. He told Cory that his life depended on his doing it right. Then he pulled the picture back.”

“Go on.”

“He handed Eddie one hundred twenties, that’s two thousand bucks for IDing a guy. In those days, Cory was into drugs and always needed money. But Cory’s straight now … He was straight … anyway.”

“That’s nice. To die clean.”

“The voice told Cory that if he done it just like he was told there would be another eight thousand. If he didn’t, there’d be a bullet. A mercy bullet, the guy said, because he would first cut off each of Cory’s toes and fingers. Then he told Cory to count to one hundred by ones before he turned around or he’d get the bullet right then.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Cory did what he was told. He got the rest of the money. Found it in his bedroom, on his bed. Right here, just down the hall. Right down there,” he pointed. “How’s that for putting the willies in you, right on his fucking bed, man. Cory was mighty happy that someone came forward to save Eddie Whittaker from being put away for something he didn’t do.”

“What else do you remember?”

“I remember thinking how weird it was the dude gave Cory the rest of the money after Eddie Whittaker got freed up.”

We talked some more, but Quirt had nothing more to give. Then he asked for his gun back. I considered tossing it in the ocean, but one gat more or less wasn’t going to change the local crime rate. After my pardon the state lacked adequate legal grounds to deny me a PI license, but given my conviction for shooting someone, they were able to deny me a license to carry a weapon. My lawyers are still fighting that. They expect to eventually win the point that a pardoned man has full rights, including obtaining a gun permit. Still, for now, I decided I’d hang onto Quirt Brown’s gun for a few days.

“I’ll hang onto this for now,” I told him, “but one day fairly soon you’ll find it in your mailbox.”

I must have brought back memories for Quirt. Halfway down the stairs I heard the sound of him engaging the deadbolt.

At eleven-thirty that afternoon, Axel had walked four blocks toward downtown Long Beach. In the next block, just around the corner, he would arrive at Mackie’s. He lunched there most days along with a handful of the city’s oldest ex-cons. Men now retired from their life’s work. Mackie’s had also become a popular lunch spot with the area’s white collar workers so he required his former jail pals to meet a certain dress and behavior code. The rules began with no drunk or loud behavior and no planning the kind of jobs that led to them all meeting in the first place. Mackie’s served great food, with soft Sinatra and Steve Tyrell in the background mixed in with Linda Ronstadt and Mackie’s personal favorite, Julie London. Sure, his music was dated, but so was Mackie. It happens when guys like him and Axel spend decades up the river, as Mackie called prison. They came out wanting their now world to be as much as possible like their then world.

The booths were well padded and the walls coated in hunter green wallpaper with cherry wood wainscoting. An assortment of sports pictures hung around the perimeter along with sexy women dressed in cherry wood frames. The lights were low, but not so much that you couldn’t read the menu or see the lovely ladies that waited tables and brought drinks wearing outfits that made you think of Hooters. It was all in good taste. A place you’d take the girl you were going to bring home to meet mother, assuming mother was reasonably hip, as they used to say.

As Axel turned the corner, a block from Mackie’s, Axel was approached by one of the street’s younger women who worked the world’s oldest racket. “Hey Mister, want something different for lunch?”