Many Morons
A neo-noir short story. 6-8 min read. Bit shorter if you read fast, longer if you read slow.
I learned how to kill people from my father.
He taught me that the best way to do murder was not to do it.
“I don’t mean thou shalt not kill,” I remember him saying as he polished his Remington 12-gauge shotgun in our garage back in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. “I mean keep your hands clean. Stay out of it. Hire a professional, preferably from out of state. Then make damn sure to be seen in a public place during the time of the murder.”
“What kind of place?” I wondered.
He gave one of his casual shrugs. “Anywhere with plenty of people. Bars are good. Or strip clubs. Better yet, go to a ball game and keep your ticket stub. When I had your mother killed…” a dreamy smile always crossed his face when he told me how he’d had my mom murdered for a paltry $5000 in 1993.
What kind of moron would risk lethal injection for four or five month’s worth of rent and food, you ask? Many morons. Many many many morons. Most of them ex-military. They don’t exactly advertise in the Yellow Pages, but they’re not hard to find. We left Michigan when I was five because my Dad had bought a bar in Fortuna Foothills, a small town of 20 000 souls about twenty minutes from Yuma, Arizona. He found his moron through some shady bar connection. Said moron drove all the way out from Colorado Springs. I suppose I don’t need to tell you what state that city is in, but it’s a fifteen hour drive away.
I was the one who found the body. The moron had killed my mom with such relish, with such recreational cruelty, that I immediately understood why he’d done it for so little money. He probably would’ve done it for free. I guess some people just love killing.
My father’s mistake was thinking that I hated my mother as much as he did. He had no idea how much I loved her. How much I hated him for taking her from me. I was careful about my hatred though. A man who has his wife killed would think nothing of having his son killed. So I played along with his image of himself as a criminal mastermind. Some badass of the west. I think he thought he was teaching me to be a junior assassin. He had no idea he was teaching his own son how to kill him.
I hired my guy from a state I won’t name for obvious reasons. I use the word “guy” instead of moron because my guy was not a moron. He was no genius but few people are. In today’s world of DNA and CCTV, he managed to evade detection and make it look like a house robbery gone wrong. That’s an achievement, regardless of what happened later. He charged $50 000, which is a lot, but that’s the price one pays for quality. My guy fulfilled every single request to the letter.
Here were my instructions:
1. Tell him why you’re there. Tell him his own son hired you. Tell him he hired you because you killed his mother. Or had her killed.
2. Make him bargain. Make it seem like you might let him off.
3. Then change your mind and make him beg.
4. Put a bullet in one of his kneecaps. Then shoot him in the gut.
5. Wait for him to piss himself in fear before finishing him off with a clean headshot.
6. Take a Polaroid. I want to see him murdered, not all done up in makeup and lying peacefully in a casket. I wouldn’t give that fucker a funeral anyway.
“A photo? That’s a really bad idea,” my guy warned. (I told you he was good.) He knew that there were two types of criminals: Those who get away and those who keep evidence or leave living witnesses.
“I’m not gonna frame the damn thing,” I assured him. “I’m just gonna look at it for a few minutes, then I’ll burn it.”
He thought about it for a minute.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I’m cool with that, but only under the condition that you burn the photo in front of me. I gotta cover my ass, you understand.”
I understood.
I was leaving my father’s bar, where I worked five nights a week, when I saw my guy’s red Pontiac Sunfire parked outside. I made damn sure to have my dad killed the same night I worked a shift. At least fifteen people came in that night. Any one of them could tell the cops I was bartending that night. My alibi was airtight. By mutual agreement, my guy didn’t come into the bar. He waited for me in his car. I didn’t want anyone to see his face. Neither did he. See? Like I said. Smart.
I looked up and down the street to make sure the coast was clear before I got in and sat down in the passenger seat.
“It’s done,” my guy said.
“Good,” I said. “Where’s the photo?”
“Where’s the money?”
I handed it to him in two thick manilla envelopes.
He counted it carefully. Then he handed it to me. The photograph of my dead dad. I studied it for a long time. It my was dad alright. Dead as a doornail. Dead as my mother.
“How long you gonna stare at that thing?”
I shrugged casually. “Not much longer. But I can’t burn it here.” I nodded at the bar. “Someone might see. Drive around back and I’ll torch it in the alley.”
My guy nodded and started the car. The radio was turned up loud, playing “Hasn’t Hit Me Yet,” a gorgeous song by a criminally overlooked Canadian band called Blue Rodeo.
“I love this song!” I said.
My guy said nothing. He was turning into the alley.
“Park there,” I pointed. “By the dumpster.”
He parked by the dumpster.
I put the photo on the dashboard and pointedly patted my jacket pockets. Then I checked my pants. “Huh,” I said.
He looked exasperated. “What? You need a light?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
As he reached into his pants I pulled out my Glock 19 and shot him in the side of his face. A shower of blood exploded onto the driver’s side window like an apple bursting in a microwave. I yanked his corpse onto my seat in a hurry. Then I took my money back before easing the Pontiac into the garage behind the bar. I left it there overnight and took it out to the desert in the morning where I set it on fire. I kept the Polaroid though. I don’t give a shit how incriminating it is. I keep it well hidden.
And besides, like a good mother, revenge should always be remembered.