Frank Zafiro - No Good Deed

“Yes, and blackmailed me.”

“Over the pregnancy?”

“Yes, of course. What else?”

“I think she blackmailed you over your part in killing her husband,” I told him. “I think she held onto some evidence and rather than pay her off, you made it look like she-”

He lashed out then, his huge fist catching me on the chin. I flew back into the wall and crumpled to the floor.

“You’re some kind of smart guy, huh?”

I shook my head to clear it. Warm blood flowed over my lip and down my chin.

“Well, let me tell you something, smart guy. You better shut up and stay away from me or I will kill you. Do you understand?”

“Will you do it with sleeping pills, Phillipe?” I asked.

He snatched me up with his left hand and punched me again with his right. The world tilted on its axis and there was a shuddering, strobing of light.

“Shut up!” he said.

“You killed her,” I said wetly. “You killed them both.”

He brought his face close to mine. “Yes,” he hissed softly, “but so what? You can’t prove anything. And if you get in my way, I will kill you, too.”

I gave a sputtering laugh, sending a light spray of blood into his face. He recoiled and shoved me backward into the wall.

“Disgusting slime,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Tell me one more thing,” I said.

“Shut up.”

“Whose baby was it? Was it his or was it yours?”

There was no reaction in his eyes. “Who cares?” he said.

At that point, an assistant coach stepped out of the locker room. He saw me against the wall and gave Richard a quizzical look. Richard shook his head and the coach shrugged.

“Time to go,” he told Richard.

The players filed out of the locker room. Some were too focused to notice my presence. Others glanced at me curiously. I met and held those glances, hoping they remembered my face. Richard tapped gloves with each player as they filed past, studiously ignoring me. When the last player walked by, Richard fell in behind them, never giving me a backward glance.

The crowd cheered as the hometown boys took the ice. When Richard strode out of the tunnel, the cheers doubled.

The crowd loved him.

“You’re no Lancelot,” I wheezed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

With a slow effort, I rose, my body aching. I wiped the blood off my chin and reached into my jacket pocket. The small mini-recorder was still running. I stopped it, rewound it and listened. Richard’s hissing, deadly voice made me shudder. Then it made me smile.

Limping, I made my way out of the arena.

In the darkness of his cell, Phillipe Richard crouched on his haunches and put his back against the wall. The block guard called lights out an hour ago, but Richard couldn’t sleep. He hardly ever could.

In prison, most men couldn’t sleep out of fear.

For Richard, it was a simmering anger that kept him up. Just as soon as he’d start to fade into sleep, images popped in his mind. Almost always, it was that little punk Stefan Kopriva. Le fils de pute! Richard saw him over and over, how he tricked a confession from him outside the locker room. Then testifying against him in court. Playing his little tape recording. So smug.

Richard knew he would see Kopriva again.

He wouldn’t be in here much longer.

The lawyer was good and the judge sympathetic, but most of it was simply because he was Phillipe Richard, hockey player. Grand-nephew of Maurice Richard, the Rocket, but he played like Dave “The Hammer” Shultz. On his way to the NHL on the power of his fists before that little piece of merde -

Richard stood, drew a long, deep breath and let it out.

He’d accepted a plea bargain. Three year sentence for manslaughter instead of second degree murder. He had twenty-two months left, counting good behavior.

His cell-mate slept peacefully on the top bunk. Richard stared at him malevolently, jealous of his repose. Todd’s quiet breath filled the cell. The dainty outline of his chin, nose and mouth made Richard grind his teeth. They reminded him of Kopriva.

Mon Dieu, he should not have to stare at that.

He reached out and nudged Todd. The smaller man could roll over and face the wall. If Richard could not sleep, at least he didn’t have to be reminded of Kopriva constantly.

Todd stirred awake and saw the hulking Richard looming over him. His eyes widened in panic.

“No, please! I-”

“Roll over.”

“Don’t hurt me,” Todd whimpered. “I’ll…I’ll do what you want.”

Richard’s lip curled in disgust. “Relax. I am no pede . I just want you to-”

“Please,” he pleaded.

Richard clenched his jaw. He was Phillipe Richard, hockey player. Enforcer. He wasn’t some kind of pervert. He loved women only, not-

“Just don’t hurt me,” Todd said.

Anger flared up in Richard. He reached out and grabbed Todd by the shoulder and jerked him up right.

Todd screamed.

Richard whipped a huge fist into Todd’s face. He felt the cheekbone snap beneath his knuckles.

Todd screeched and thrashed on the bunk. Animal rage flooded Richard and he pumped his fist into Todd’s head like a trip-hammer. He felt like he was on the ice again, gloves and sticks discarded, in the heat of battle. Kopriva’s face flashed before him and he unleashed his hatred into each blow.

Light flooded the block. Richard punched.

Buzzers. Clanging metal. Cries of men.

His fists were wet. And red.

A jolt went through him and his body went rigid. He collapsed to the ground to the clacking, zapping sound of electric current. He couldn’t move.

The current released him. A mass of bodies descended on him, pinning him to the ground. Someone ratcheted handcuffs onto his wrists.

“Oh, Jesus,” someone else muttered.

One of the guards stood him up. Zimmerman. His eyes were round with wonder.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked Richard.

Richard glanced at the still form on the top bunk.

“Jesus, Richard,” Zimmerman said. “You were out of here in twenty-three months.”

“Twenty-two,” Richard murmured, staring at Todd’s collapsed face.

“Well, you’ll do life now.”

Phillipe Richard didn’t answer.

I was paying bills when the tentative knock came at my door. I wasn’t sure if it’d been mine or a neighbor’s until the second series of taps. I eased the door open and peered through the crack.

Cassie.

She wore a loose T-shirt that hung a couple of inches above the waistband of her faded jeans. Her navel peeked out beneath the white cotton. Her eyes were cautious, but when she saw me, a hesitant smile touched her mouth. The slightly crooked tooth at the edge of her smile glinted at me.

A strange rush of emotions washed over me. Desire. Curiosity. Shame, because of recent events.

“Stef,” she whispered.

I motioned her inside and closed the door.

What could I say to her? I’d just spent fifteen days in jail on a gun charge and had my name dragged through the streets like Hector in the dust behind Achilles on his triumphant lap around Troy.

“Are you okay?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“Is it true? What the newspaper wrote about you?”

“No,” I answered automatically. I hadn’t read the newspaper, but experience told me it wouldn’t be accurate.

“I…I didn’t think so.”

We stood still for a tense, awkward moment. The weight of unrealized, brooding desire all those long months hung between us. I motioned toward my kitchen. “Can I get you-”

She stepped into me, catching me on the mouth in mid-sentence. Her lips were warm and soft. After a moment’s surprise, I returned her kiss. Body heat radiated from her as she pressed into me. Her tongue found mine, chased it. Caught it.