Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“I don’t know,” Wyatt said.

“You should be a doctor,” said Wertz. He nodded to himself. “Booze destroys brain cells, but are they still in there, dead and black, or do they get flushed out? Am I pissing brain cells? I ask myself these questions.”

Greer rose, leaned against the wall. “What about reasonable doubt?”

“That’s an easy one,” Wertz said. “Reasonable doubt means inventing some crackpot story and making sure there’s at least one crackpot citizen on the jury to swallow it.”

“So what are you saying?” Greer said. “He wasn’t innocent, but you couldn’t come up with the crackpot story or a crackpot citizen?”

“Finding crackpot citizens is a snap,” Wertz said. His good eye blinked a few times. “Who are we talking about?”

“Christ,” said Greer, her voice sharpening; Wertz flinched. “Sonny Racine.”

“You blame me for losing that one?” Wertz said.

“Is that what happened?” Greer said.

Wertz shook his head. “Sonny Racine lost it himself.”

Wyatt didn’t understand any of this. “So he was guilty?” he said.

“I thought so when I first looked at the file,” Wertz said. “But then he insisted on taking the stand, testifying. Which was how he lost the case-a crazy thing to do, against counsel’s strong advice, although counsel wasn’t at his strongest at the time. The DA was practically salivating, tore him apart on cross. Sonny Racine gave himself a life sentence. See what I’m saying?”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“Nurse! Nurse!” The man in the other bed suddenly cried out. Wyatt jumped up, his heart pounding. The man was still on his back, eyes still closed, looked as though he hadn’t moved.

“Lid on it, you sack of shit,” said Wertz, not turning to look. The man began to snore again.

“I jumped a mile,” said Greer.

“That’s Mr. Coffee,” said Wertz. “Just ignore him.”

“What did that mean,” Wyatt said, crouching down again, “Sonny Racine gave himself a life sentence?”

The good eye was back on him. “You’re not completely stupid, are you?” Wertz said. “Course the girlfriend here’s smart as a whip, nothing could be more obvious. Two of you making big plans?”

They didn’t answer.

“And if you were, why tell me, right?” He made a gravelly sound in his throat that might have been laughter. “Okay, it’s simple. You tell a guilty guy, stay off the goddamn stand or you’re done, and he stays off. You tell an innocent guy the same thing, and he has a tough time buying it. He thinks, hey, I’m innocent, I’ll tell my story and this will all go away. Usually a ticket straight to the pen, but…oh well.”

“Oh well?” Greer said.

Wertz shrugged. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.”

“But you’ve admitted you didn’t handle it well,” Greer said.

“I’m starting not to like you,” said Wertz, “despite how easy you are on the eyes. I never admitted any such thing. And you know what? I’ve had enough. So here’s your takeaway, children-Sonny Racine was covering up for someone.”

“Who?” Wyatt said.

“Don’t know,” said Wertz, his gaze fastening on Greer. “But if I had to guess, I’d say a girlfriend.”

Girlfriend? Wyatt didn’t understand. There was no girlfriend, just his mom. And then he remembered that his mom had never married Sonny; a wedding was in their plans but the crime had come first. Things shifted in his mind, and suddenly came a scary question: his mom was the girlfriend?

“What girlfriend?” Wyatt said.

“Show’s over,” Wertz said. He turned to the window. A dark bird swooped by.

“What does that mean?” Greer said as they drove away from Hillside Breeze. “Your mom was involved?”

“No way,” Wyatt said. The idea was out of the question, impossible, unthinkable.

“Then what’s he saying?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. He’s kind of out of it, right?”

Greer nodded. She took his hand. Hers was trembling a bit. “If I ever get like that, shoot me,” she said.

“You? Get like that?” He glanced at her, couldn’t imagine her any different from the way she was right there in the passenger seat, her hand on his.

Greer was quiet for the rest of the ride back to her place. As Wyatt pulled up in front, she said, “Doesn’t it make sense to pay him a visit? I’m talking about Sonny Racine.”

No explanation necessary: Wyatt had been thinking the same thing. “Don’t want to,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“But then we’ll never know what really happened. Don’t you want to find out? I do.”

“Why?”

“For your sake,” Greer said. “I care about you, in case you’ve missed that somehow.”

Wyatt parked the car, shut it off, and turned to her. Her lips were slightly parted. “What’s it got to do with me?” he said.

“It’s part of your past.”

“I wasn’t even born.”

“Yeah,” said Greer. “But.”

The next day, when Wyatt got to school, Dub was waiting for him in the parking lot. He had a red welt on the side of his powerful neck. Catcher was a tough position: Wyatt could even see the imprint of stitches left by the ball.

“That hurt,” Wyatt said.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

Wyatt pointed to the welt.

“It’s nothin’,” Dub said. “What’s going on with you?”

“Headed for class,” Wyatt said.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. What are you up to? How come you’re not back home?”

“How come you’re not?”

“For fuck sake, ’cause of baseball, you know that,” Dub said. “Answer the question.”

“I’m staying here.”

“Why?”

“It’s a good school.”

“Since when do you give a shit about school?”

Wyatt shrugged. In fact, and to his surprise, he was starting to get more interested in school, English especially. He’d even done the homework last night, reading all of Act Three, Greer sitting nearby, playing her acoustic guitar.

“You’re throwing your life away, man,” Dub said.

“How’s that?”

Dub stared at him-more of a glare, really-and shook his head. “Talk to Aunt Hildy,” he said.

“About what?”

“I mean if your stupid-ass mind is really made up about staying here,” Dub said. “Apologize. Be nice. Maybe she’ll take you back.”

“To her place?” Wyatt said. “Uh-uh.”

“What do mean-uh-uh?”

“I’m fine where I am.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Hey, easy.”

Dub was getting flushed; the welt caused by the baseball disappeared in the general redness. “She went to this school,” he said. “Graduated two years ago.”

“I know that,” Wyatt said. “So?”

“So word is you’re not the first.”

Now Wyatt felt himself reddening, too. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No big secret,” Dub said, sticking out his chin, an aggressive habit he’d had since they were little boys. “She fucked half the football team.”

Wyatt didn’t think, just threw the hardest punch he could, right smack on the stuck-out chin. He felt the jolt all the way back down his arm and into his shoulder. Dub’s head snapped to the side and he staggered backward, almost fell. Wyatt was just starting to feel a bit bad about what he’d done, pretty close to a sucker punch, when Dub yelled, “Son of a bitch,” and came roaring at him, both fists flying. Wyatt blocked one but not the other, which landed on his nose, exact same spot where Rusty had connected. Blood spurted out and Wyatt sank to his knees.

“Maybe that’ll knock some sense into you,” Dub said. “Sure as hell need it.” He turned and walked away.