Dave Zeltserman: Small crimes

My stomach was feeling empty. I didn't think I could wait until seven – also, I had that blueberry wheat ale on my mind, so I stopped off at the Bradley Brewery and ordered a cheeseburger and an ale. As I was eating my food I saw Phil Coakley walk in. He noticed me, hesitated, and then walked over and sat on the stool next to me. I could see his arm was still in a sling.

'You've been busy the last few days,' he said.

'Yeah. You caught the news broadcast Wednesday night?'

"That's not what I'm talking about.’

‘What're you talking about, then?'

'All the deaths and shootings we've had. Let's see, Scott Ferguson, Jamie Hubbard, Duane Wilcox, Manny Vassey Jr. – oh yeah, and a young nurse, Charlotte Boyd, who was hacked to death. And of course Susie Baker, and my own self being shot.'

'I had nothing to do with any of that, Phil.'

I could feel him staring at me.

'From what I understand,' I said, 'Sheriff Dan Pleasant and his boys shot Junior after he had murdered-’

‘Hacked to pieces.’

‘Okay, hacked to pieces that nurse.'

'Charlotte Boyd. You should at least call her by her name, Joe. I know you dated her.’

‘Okay, so I dated her.'

'Funny, though, she didn't seem your type.'

'I had just gotten out of jail,' I murmured. I was lonely.'

'I still can't see it. The only thing I can see is that in some way you were responsible for her death. My guess, you're responsible for all of them.'

I turned to him. 'What do you want, Phil?'

'I want to see you punished for what you've done.' He sighed. 'But I guess that's not going to happen, at least not in this lifetime. But Joe, I hope you end up rotting in hell.'

He got up and walked to one of the empty tables.

I finished my burger and ale. I didn't bother looking at him when I left the bar. It wasn't worth letting him get to me. It was over. I squinted against the sunlight as I walked outside. It was a new day. What was past was past.

I drove over to my parents' house. I didn't really care about saying any goodbyes, but there were things of mine that I wanted to give my girls. Some football trophies, the game ball for a division championship, some books – just some small things.

The door was unlocked. I yelled out, nobody answered, so I went straight to my old bedroom. As I was collecting my things, my dad walked in.

'What are you doing here?' he asked.

'I'm leaving for Albany tonight. I'm getting some of my things together for my girls. I'll be out of here in ten minutes.'

He stood silently and watched me, his face growing more haggard every second. I guess he reached a point where he couldn't help himself.

'Look at you,' he cried out. 'You're all beat up. God knows what you've been doing. And you're going to go to your daughters for what? To screw them up the way you screwed yourself up?'

I wanted to ignore him, but he got to me. I turned to him. 'Look,' I said, 'I was hoping we could have some sort of amicable goodbye, but I couldn't care less anymore. Go to hell, okay?'

I turned my back on him. I could hear him leave the room. I was a little surprised to hear him come back less than a minute later.

'Joey,' he said, his voice not quite right, 'I can't let you do this.' I turned around and saw that he was holding a Colt. 45, pointing it at my stomach.

'Jesus, where did you get that?'

He was shaking as he held it. He started crying. 'I'm sorry, Joey, I can't let you do this.'

'Dad, you look ridiculous holding that gun. Just give it to me.'

I reached for the gun. The last thing I expected was for him to use it.

He shot me in the stomach.

I slid down the wall and sat on the floor and watched as the red circle in my stomach grew outward. At first all I could think was Damn, another shirt ruined. Then, as I looked up at my dad and saw him weeping, I had a clarity of thought that I hadn't had before. I knew I couldn't blame him. He was only trying to protect my daughters – his granddaughters. How could I blame him for that? How could I after everything I'd done?

As I lay there I thought about all the people who had died recently. Maybe most of them deserved what happened to them, but not all of them. I might not have pulled the trigger, but I caused all of it. I could have gone to Phil and confessed my crimes. I could have sought real atonement for what I had done. Instead I tried to hide and cheat the system, and because of that, and because of what I was, all those people died.

I had to be honest with myself about what happened and about other things, things that I didn't really want to admit to myself. What happened to Charlotte was really no great surprise. When I told Dan about Charlotte, I knew I was trading her life for mine, but I didn't care. Just as I knew when I told him about Phil and Susie that he wouldn't try busting Phil on a morals charge. I knew him well enough to know what he'd do. I might have been kidding myself at the time, but I knew all along what I was doing. That promise I made about living in a way my daughters could be proud of – fuck, I did a lot since then that they could be proud of, didn't I? It was as worthless as any I had ever made.

I should also admit I killed Billy Ferguson. The story I gave Manny afterwards was the obvious one – the guy wouldn't pay up and things got out of hand. The truth, though, I needed that thirty grand. My luck had to change. I had to win a few bets so I could grow that thirty grand and pay off Manny and be free of him. That was the plan anyway. But of course the bets I made were losers and a week later I was no better off than before. Whatever bookie gave Dan his story was on the level.

So there you had it. The multitude of crime I'd committed. How could I blame my dad for what he did? He knew what I was and it was about time I admitted it to myself.

As I watched him weep, I had my first real unselfish thought in my life. He shouldn't have to go to jail for protecting my girls and I didn't want them to have to lose their grandfather.

There wasn't much left of me. I knew I was going fast. Even if he had a change of heart and called for an ambulance, I knew I'd be gone before they got to me. I could barely speak, but I whispered for him to get me a pen and paper. He just stood in front of me, his face one big crease as he wept.

It hurt like hell to talk, but I tried again. 'Pen, paper.'

He probably had no idea what I wanted them for, but he got them for me. It took almost everything I had left, but I scribbled as neatly as I could, 'Sorry – Joe' on it. I made sure not to get any blood on the paper. It wasn't much of a suicide note, but it would do. Besides, those two words probably made as much sense as anything I could've written.

I pointed to his gun. I mouthed the word 'gun' to him.

Maybe he thought I was going to shoot him. If he did, he didn't care because he gave his gun to me. He stood in front of me for a moment, and then staggered back, collapsing into a chair. Through his weeping, he told me over and over again that he loved me, but that he couldn't let me hurt my daughters. At that moment I wanted to love him also. More than anything I wanted to truly love my two daughters.

I put the barrel of the gun against my bullet wound. It would probably look funny committing suicide by shooting yourself twice in the stomach, but hell, let them prove otherwise.

It was a struggle holding the gun up, and an even bigger struggle trying to pull the trigger back. That's the problem with a Colt. 45; it takes some strength to fire it. As I strained to pull the trigger, I started thinking of Dan, of how he'd react when he heard I'd committed suicide. It was really kind of funny if you thought about it. After everything he had done only to end up having to go to prison when my safety deposit box was opened. As I thought about it I started laughing. I guess with the little strength that I had my laugh came out more as a wheeze. My dad probably thought I was suffering through my final convulsions. He started weeping even harder. I would've liked to have told him not to worry about me, but I didn't have the strength to say anything.