Benny left the track and drove back to I-94, heading towards his storage place on Cline Avenue. He was going to toss Gerald into the harbor himself. On the way to Coros RV & Boat Storage, he couldn’t help but reflect on how radically things changed in his life. This had nothing to do with his impending divorce. It had everything to do with his nature. Here he was, on his way to dump a human being, like it was a piece of meat, into a cold body of water. Where in his upbringing did he get that? He never hurt anyone before no matter what they did to him.
He remembered back to when his childhood dog, Daisy, had died.
* * * * *
Daisy was a four-year-old rescue when Benny’s father adopted her from the pound--literally hours before that poor sweet mutt was to be put to sleep. Benny was about five at the time. Daisy had a miserable life before the Weinsteins took her in. She was a brown, long-haired half Golden Retriever, half who knows what with sad eyes and droopy hairy ears, who was beaten, starved and left out in the cold until the dog catchers saw her roaming the streets after escaping from her cramped cage--where she was held captive twenty-three hours a day. Benny’s father always knew his son wanted a dog and thought a mature dog would need less housebreaking. Benny remembered peeking out the window and seeing his father opening the family’s turtle green Buick and suddenly seeing this mass of fur fly by. Daisy ran around the yard at warp speed for a full ten minutes before Harry corralled her into the house.
Daisy loved every second of the three years she lived with the Weinsteins. Man, was she spoiled! She had the run of the house and backyard, a huge delicious dinner every night, chicken soup with whole chicken on the weekends, a daily freshened water dish, and two dogs to play with next door. Benny spent hours playing with Daisy--taking her on long walks and going fishing at the lagoon. Benny would catch a fish and Daisy would go after it in the water, pretending she caught it. Benny would clap as Daisy shook herself off, soaking everyone in sight--a small price to pay for the happiness they had together. Every day when Benny got home from school, Daisy would wildly bark and jump for joy, nearly knocking Benny over each time. Her master was home. One spring day while Benny was at school, Daisy got sick and his mother, Mildred, rushed her to the vet. It was some sort of untreatable virus. Daisy was sent home to die, and waited for Benny by her water dish. She had to see him one last time. Benny got home from school at 3:34 p.m. and saw his best friend laying there on the floor, too weak to greet him in her usual exuberant manner. Daisy could only manage to twitch her ear and sniff Benny’s hand as he put it to her dry nose. At 3:47 p.m. on that rainy April day, Daisy looked up at Benny’s eyes, licked his fingers and said goodbye. Daisy’s limp body melted on the floor and died. Benny cried uncontrollably for a week. Mildred put her son’s head in her lap and rubbed his head, assuring him he would see Daisy again someday. Maybe they will.
* * * * *
It was 9:50 p.m. Coros Storage was about two miles away. Benny turned onto Cline Avenue, slowing to 20 mph on the long, curved ramp. He passed a liquor store on his right, then two blocks down, another liquor store on his left. He wasn’t in the best of areas. That’s why the rent was so low. He glanced at his back seat and saw his pistol waiting for him--empty as it was. Okay, he thought to himself, let’s get this over and done. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. He pulled into the storage complex, entered his security code and waited for the gait to open. Nothing happened. He entered his code again and the motorized gate finally began to hum. Good, he thought. That’s all it was. I entered the wrong numbers. The heavy black iron gate started to slide. As soon as there was room, Benny drove past the gate to his storage space. He backed his car up to the garage door and got out of his car. Off to his left he noticed a large breach in the chain linked fence which surrounded the facility. That’s odd, he thought. Why don’t they fix that? Anyone could just come in. I’ve got to hurry.
Benny walked behind his car, making sure the hitch was secured. He then grabbed the garage door handle, effortlessly raising the door, revealing his Jon boat. That’s very strange, he thought. Didn’t I padlock this shut yesterday? I know I did. There was no padlock to be found. Maybe I only thought I locked it. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I’ll bet that’s it, Benny thought, trying to convince himself he wasn’t going crazy.
Benny stood there for a few seconds, inspecting his boat and contemplating the task ahead. I’ve got to work fast. I’m doing this alone. It’s not going to be easy. Maybe Baines Harbor isn’t a good place to dump the body. Come on--let’s not get confused. I still have to go back to Stagecoach Road to get the body.
It was dark inside the storage space. The parking lot security lights were bright, but not enough to see what he was doing. He went back to his car and took a flashlight from the glove compartment and went back inside. Suddenly, he heard the familiar sound, the motor--the same one he heard all day. He quickly lowered the door and turned on his flashlight, waiting for the car or whatever it was, to pass. It didn’t. He listened as the motor drew nearer then stopped, idling just feet away. Benny got scared. It’s probably another renter getting his stuff, he thought. I’m not the only one with a boat or RV.
Benny shone the light on the boat and put his hand on the tarp. The glow cast a wide shadow in the room. A large brown beetle ran passed his foot while he inspected the cold vinyl covering--the familiar idling motor, more present than before. Who the fuck is that? he thought. Why are they still outside? Benny was scared. He wished he had taken his gun from the back seat. He knew it wasn’t loaded, but maybe the sight of it would deter an attacker. He stood there another minute before thinking there might be something in the boat he could use as a weapon. Maybe the culprit left a knife in there or something. That’s it, he thought, allowing himself a ray of hope. Maybe the person who cleaned out my stuff overlooked a knife.
The rumbling of the motor got louder, as if the driver purposely gunned the engine so it would be heard. Benny’s hand trembled as his sweaty hand gripped the tarp. He knew there probably wasn’t anything of use in the boat--bugs maybe. It can’t hurt to look, he thought. He heard the engine rev up a few more times. “Let’s just get this over with and get out,” he whispered to himself, as he forcefully yanked the tarp off the vessel. “OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD!” he screamed. “JESUS! MOTHER FUCKER!! FUUUCKKKK!!” Gerald was in the boat! His grisly remains were sprawled over the slats. His mouth cut into an eerie smile, like a Jack-O-Lantern. His hollow eyes staring right at Benny. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! FUCKING CHRIST!!”
Benny dropped his flashlight on the corpse. His only thought was to get out of there, not caring who or what awaited outside. He groped for the garage handle and lifted the door. He bolted for his car without looking over the fence. He reached in the back seat for his gun.
“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, JEW!” the voice in an amber pickup truck yelled. It was Frank! “DROP THE FUCKING PISTOL!”
Benny tossed his gun under his Camry.
Frank rammed his truck through the fence, as he did before, and smashed into Benny’s front bumper, blocking any chance of escaping. Frank got out of his truck, pointing his shotgun right at Benny’s right temple.
“Did you like my little surprise, JEW?” Frank said, referring to Gerald’s body in the boat.
Benny didn’t move. Frank was in control.
“I know it was you, you fucking kike. I know it was you. It was you who killed Tommy. Yes, I know it was you. I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had the guts, fucking coward.”
Benny looked for a way out. It was obvious Frank was drunk.
“Yes, and I know about Tommy fucking that foxy wife of yours. Yes, yes I know about that. Murphy told me. Tommy said he fucked her gooooood! Raaaaaaaaaaaaw! He came in her twat like a horse--weeeeeeee, ha ha ha,” Frank laughed. “She sucked his cock too!”
Benny was more scared than angry. He knew Frank was going to kill him--and wanted to have a little fun first.
“Yeah, and poor Murphy. Well, what can you say about good old Murphy?” Frank said, consoling himself. “He probably had it coming. Did a lot of bad shit in his life. Boy, I wanted to fuck his woman. Man, Chrissy has some nice tits, doesn’t she?” Frank ranted on while backing up to get a can of malt liquor from his dashboard. “Hey! Maybe now I will fuck her,” remembering she was now a ‘widow’. “Right after I waste your Jew ass!”
Benny didn’t say a word as his eyes scanned back and forth, waiting for an opening. Frank took a long drink from his half-filled can of suds, lifting the barrel of his gun for a split second. Benny made a move to run.
“STOP RIGHT THERE, FUCKER!” Frank screamed, dropping his brew. “DON’T FUCKING MOVE!” he said, repositioning the gun at Benny’s head and enjoying every second.
“Poor Skunk. Poor Skunk,” Frank sobbed, referring to Gerald’s more familiar name. “Poor Skunk. Why did you have to kill him?” Frank cried, the booze exaggerating is emotions. “He was my best friend. My pal. And you killed him. YOU KILLED HIM!”
Frank was rapidly losing what little control he had, and angry that he dropped his Colt 45. Benny knew he would be shot on the spot if he opened his mouth. He kept it shut.
“The money, Jew,” Frank said, cocking the trigger back, the barrel just inches from Benny’s skull. “I saw you cash out. Yeah that was me at the track. You scored big, didn’t you Jew. DIDN’T YOU!”
Benny kept quiet.
“That guy must have counted out sixty C-notes at the window. I saw him hand you an envelope. Now where is it? COME ON--WHERE IS IT JEW?”
No response.
“ANSWER ME FUCKER!” Frank demanded. “If you want to save your miserable fucking life you’ll tell me where the money is. Is it in your car? WHERE IS IT FUCKER?”
Frank was running out of patience as he bent forward, thinking he could salvage another swallow from the can. Just then, two squad cars screeched up to the fence. A trucker tipped them off about a man in an amber pickup weaving through traffic on I-94. Another trucker reported the same vehicle speeding onto Cline Avenue.
“POLICE OFFICERS. PUT THE GUN DOWN. NOW!” an officer shouted, grabbing his revolver with two hands and pointing it at Frank.
Benny stood motionless as he saw Frank jerk his head around, surprised by the abrupt turn of events.
“GUN DOWN NOW!” the officer repeated.
Frank didn’t see the other cops and thought he could outgun the one he saw. In a desperate move, Frank fired his shotgun, spraying the cop’s right arm with pellets. A cop from the other car got out and shot Frank in the back of his head, killing him instantly. He dropped with a hard thud. The officers, with guns still drawn, slowly approached Benny.
“Identify yourself,” said one of the cops.
“Benjamin Weinstein, sir,” Benny said, relieved to be rescued.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was getting my boat out of storage, sir. My kids and I are going fishing this weekend.”
“This late at night? Where do you live?”
“In Hammond, sir. Not far from here. I just came back from Balmoral Race Track and the storage is on the way home.” Benny reached for something inside his jacket.
“HOLD IT!” the officer yelled. “What are you reaching for?”
“Some losing tickets, sir,” Benny respectfully said as he voluntarily raised his hands above his head. “Check for yourself.”
By now, four officers were outside their cars. One was radioing for an ambulance.
“That’s okay,” said one of the officers. “You show them to me.”
Benny reached inside his jacket and pulled out a handful of tickets he fortunately picked up off the track’s floor. He always did that when he won big--tax purposes. He handed a few to the cops. They examined the tickets and put their guns down. But Benny wasn’t in the clear. One of the cops walked to the boat. Benny warned him what he would find.
“There’s a dead body in my boat,” Benny admitted. “The guy you just shot killed him and put him there. He was trying to frame me for the murders in Miller. Ask Lt. Jefferson from the Gary Police Department. I just took and passed a polygraph about that. The guy you shot killed them all. He told me so just now. He was following me--followed me to the track and saw me cash over six grand.” Benny pulled the envelope out from his jacket. “Here it is.”
Two cops examined Gerald’s stiff body in the Jon boat.
“Get another wagon here,” an officer said to one of his colleagues. “And get forensics here too.”
Benny thought he might still be in trouble, but felt a little better when the officer looked inside Frank’s truck.
“Look at this!” an officer said, pointing to all the stuff he found in the back of Frank’s pickup. All of Benny’s old stuff was there. The same things the cops knew were part of the crime scene in Miller--rope, a sewing kit, camera, tape, twine, darts, tranquilizer rifle, Sucostrin, adrenaline, the works. It was all there--in Frank’s truck!
The cops radioed Lt. Jefferson who was busy on another murder case, like he was every night in Gary. But he confirmed Benny’s statements and the officers didn’t even bother searching Benny. Good thing--he had a couple of darts on him too!
The ambulance arrived and removed Gerald’s body from the boat. Two tow trucks were dispatched to haul away Frank’s truck and Benny’s boat. “Sorry,” said one of the officers. “Your kids will have to wait until the lab is done with it--shouldn’t be any more than a week--two, tops.”
“That’s all right,” Benny said, agreeing with everything the officers wanted. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
“Follow us to the station, Mr. Weinstein. We need to get a statement.”
“Sure thing.”
The officers waited until the tow trucks and ambulances left, then got into their cars, waiting for Benny to get into his. Benny tossed his keys in the air, purposely letting them drop so he would have an excuse to bend down and retrieve his gun, which he did. Benny got in his car and followed the officers to the station where he was interviewed for an hour.
“Okay, thanks Mr. Weinstein,” said officer Sanders, the lead interrogator. “I mean, Doctor Weinstein!”
Benny smiled, feeling even more relieved with the officer’s good humor.
“Please, just Benny. Call me Benny.”
“We have your office phone number. We’ll call you if we need you.”
“Anytime,” Benny said cheerfully. “And let me know when I can pick up my boat. It’s perch season, you know!”
Benny exited the police station and walked to his car. The first thing he did was stuff his gun under the front seat. I’ll eventually have to put some more bullets in this thing, he thought. I sure could have used some tonight. He drove to his parents’ house to spend the night, and heard Buffy and Jody say goodnight to Mr. French.