Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

So that was that: absolutely no way Linda had anything to do with this. She had no interest in bars, didn’t go to bars, hardly ever even had a drink.

“But,” said Sonny.

“But what?”

“But even in that person’s place,” Sonny said, holding up one finger, not quite steady, “there’s one thing I’d never have done.”

“What’s that?”

“Hook up with a rat.” Another sign: WELCOME TO MILLERVILLE, A KIDS-COME-FIRST COMMUNITY. Several of the letters were missing; that reminded Wyatt of the current state of Sonny’s mouth, a crazy thought. “Let’s go pay a call on the rat,” Sonny said.

“We’re talking about Doc Vitti?”

“You’re a real smart kid. Can you get me to where he lives?”

“What are you going to do there?”

“What you’ve been asking me to do-prove my innocence.”

“And hurting him wouldn’t do that,” Wyatt said, glancing at Sonny, the bad side of his face unreadable.

“Right you are-wouldn’t help the slightest goddamn bit, would only hurt my chances, if you want the truth. But he’s the key to getting the statement we need.”

“From the other person, the one you protected?”

“You’re way ahead of me.”

“But I still don’t have the name.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Sonny said. “Don’t want you involved in any legal ramifications.”

“I don’t understand.” Wyatt came to an ill-lit street lined by shabby houses, the street that led to the trailer park, and turned onto it.

“Even though I’m innocent and will prove it,” Sonny said, “the fact is I’m kind of AWOL right now, in a legal sense.”

Wyatt thought about that as they came to the entrance to the trailer park. “What would have happened if you hadn’t gotten into the fight with Hector? You’d just have stayed there, getting old in jail?”

“No idea. But seize the day.”

Wyatt didn’t quite buy that explanation, but the time for questions was running out. He slowed down as they entered the trailer park. “He lives somewhere in here.”

“What’s he drive?” Sonny said.

“An old pickup, Dodge Ram, black.” The pickup appeared in the headlights, parked in front of a silver trailer on wheels, the kind that could actually be towed.

“Cut the lights,” Sonny said. “Stop the car.”

Wyatt cut the lights and stopped the car. They gazed through the rain at the trailer, a glow showing in a side window.

“Pop the trunk,” Sonny said.

“What for?”

“I’d like to borrow your tire iron. Just for deterrence-never hurts to be prudent. Doc, at least in the old days, had pigheaded tendencies.”

The trunk didn’t open from the inside. They got out, into the pelting rain, and walked around to the trunk. Wyatt unlocked it, raised the hood.

“Well, well,” Sonny said, peering inside. He reached in and took out Wyatt’s bat. “What a beauty.” He assumed a batting stance-a very good one, balanced and comfortable-and swung the bat gently two or three times. “You’ll get it back, I promise,” he said. He lowered the bat, held it loosely in his left hand, extended his right. “This is good-bye,” he said, “at least for now.”

“Good-bye?”

“Shh. Can’t have you implicated-in case anything goes wrong. You haven’t seen me, know nothing about this.”

Wyatt hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” Sonny said. “If all goes well, I’ll be down at the police station in an hour, presenting my evidence.”

“The police station here? In Millerville?”

“Sure.” Sonny smiled his broken smile. His lips were wet with a mixture of rain and blood.

“Your evidence meaning the twenty-two that was never found?” Wyatt said. “Is that why we’re here?”

Sonny laughed. “My kid the genius,” he said. “Take good care of yourself. I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“But-”

Sonny’s smile vanished. “Hey, Wyatt-please don’t mess this up. I’m trying to get my life back here.”

Wyatt nodded. They shook hands. Sonny’s grip was strong and warm-almost hot, in fact. Then, as Wyatt stepped around the car, a powerful light flashed on from a point ten or fifteen feet from the trailer, framing Sonny in a white circle. Doc-his rough voice instantly recognizable to Wyatt-called out: “Don’t fuckin’ move, Sonny. Got a twelve-gauge pointed at your head.”

But Sonny did move-so fast Wyatt wasn’t clear exactly what was happening-diving out of the white circle and at the same time hurling the bat at the source of the light. Wyatt caught the gleam of the spinning bat, and then came a thud and a cry of pain, and next the beam pointed wildly in several directions and finally went still, aimed straight up at the sky. Sonny was already on the move, running toward the light and the dark form beside it, shaped like a man on his knees. The man on his knees was reaching for something on the ground, but before he could get it, Sonny was on him. Another thud, another cry of pain, and then Sonny rose. Wyatt went closer, close enough to see Doc lying on his back, bleeding from the side of his head, blood and mud clotting in his long graying hair; and Sonny standing over him, one foot resting on Doc’s throat, the shotgun in his hand.

“Can’t say the years have been kind to you, Doc,” Sonny said. “You look like shit.”

Doc gazed up at him, eyes full of hate. “Seen yourself lately?”

Sonny flashed his messed-up smile. “All fixable,” he said. “Just part of the plan-a disguise, you could call it.” He took his foot off Doc’s throat and said, “Up.”

Doc rolled over, got back on his knees, then suddenly bent forward and puked.

“That’s just the fear talking,” Sonny said. “You’re not hurt that bad.” He grabbed Doc by the collar and pulled him up. “Let’s get out of the rain,” he said.

At that moment, Doc noticed Wyatt. He blinked. “You?”

Sonny glanced at Wyatt. “Weren’t you on your way, son?”

“But-”

“Doc and I need to go inside and straighten things out, and there’s only so much time. I’ll be in touch, like I said.” Sonny smiled. His face was hard, and shiny with rain.

Wyatt got into the Mustang, turned, and drove out of the trailer park. In the rearview mirror he saw Sonny stomp on Doc’s searchlight, bringing back the darkness with a quiet smash, and then two shadowy forms were moving toward the trailer.

Wyatt pulled over, not far from the entrance, and parked by the side of the road. He tried to make sense of what he’d just seen, tried to make it fit with everything he’d already learned about that night at 32 Cain Street; and was still trying when headlights appeared down the street. A car came nearer, a small sedan. As it passed under a streetlamp-the only one on the block that was working-Wyatt caught a glimpse of the driver, a middle-aged woman with copper-red hair: Charlene. Charlene of Good Time Charlene’s bar, married to Bob Waters with whom she lived in that well-kept bungalow, at the same time having a secret affair with Doc Vitti. She drove by, gaze straight ahead, hands tight on the wheel, and turned into the trailer park. Wyatt got out of the Mustang and followed on foot.

The rain began to let up. Wyatt ran down the lane that led to the silver trailer, saw Charlene getting out of the sedan, fumbling with an umbrella. She walked to the trailer, adjusting a small purse she carried on her shoulder, and knocked on the door. Wyatt moved closer, staying in the shadows.

The door opened and Sonny looked out; he had the bat in his hand, now reddened at the end.

“Oh my God,” Charlene said.

“Surprise,” said Sonny.

Charlene backed away. Sonny grabbed her wrist. She dropped the umbrella, tried to get to her purse. Sonny yanked her close with one hand-his other still held the bat-and kissed her mouth. She squirmed and struggled, but couldn’t get away. Finally he let go. Charlene wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.