BLAME THE BITCH

read the crime story rejected by a ton of crime anthologies and magazines

“The boss is dead."

"Get out of here," Moe said. "I just saw him last night. About six hours ago."

"He's dead, and you better get over here." Jules sounded nervous on the phone, and if Jules was nervous Moe was nervous.

"Have you called the coroner?"

"I wanted to wait for you because you need to see this."

Moe paused. "What do I need to see? How did he die?"

"That's just it. Get over here."

Muntasser "Moe" Heshmet hung up the phone. The room was dark like a movie theater except for the large fish tank where ghostly fish seemed to hover in a spotlight. Moe looked at Lena in the bed next to him, tangled in the grey sheets. Her neck muscles, tense in her sleep, glistened with sweat reflecting the light of the fish tank. The phone hadn't woken her up. He wasn't crazy about leaving his apartment and leaving Lena there to wake up without him and snoop around, but he couldn't exactly wake her up and kick her out. Lena was the old man's girl. Moewas thankful she hadn't heard any of the telephone exchange with Jules Meaney because she would have put two and two together and realized the boss was dead, her man, her protector. The old man didn't know Moe was doing Lena on the side. The old man would have killed him out of jealousy if he found out. But now he was dead so what did it matter, in a way?

Moe said fuck it and went down to the parking garage where his customized Cadillac Escalade waited. As he drove across town to the ritzy, sprawling neighborhood where the boss man lived, he tried to think about what it would mean that the old bastard was dead.

The old man dying out of nowhere was a shocker. No doubt it was a crucial moment when they had to play their cards just right. Money laundering, gambling, and trafficking designer drugs had only gotten them so far. Rivals like Demetrius Watson were waiting in the shadows like spiders, to take control. If it was murder—Moe didn't see how it could have been since the old man’s bedroom was protected all night by guards—it would cause a spasm of violence which would wrack the city.

He pulled up to the swank address and saw several other vehicles already there. No cops, no ambulance, no coroner. Good.

Moe went to the door and rang the bell. The door was opened and he was met by Barboa, a 275-pound alligator of a man who only got called out when the situation was serious and volatile.

"Is Jules here?" Moe said, not totally sure if Barboa recognized him.

"Upstairs. Damn shame." Barboa stood out of the way.

Up in the bedroom Jules Meaney and Paddy Corrigan were standing and talking. Jules was chewing on his toothpick, typical Jules. His face was always sweaty like he just came from a sauna. Paddy had a bandage across his nose that looked fresh, blood still red. Paddy was always brawling with guys, and in between brawls he was finding some way to fight some more.

Jules saw Moe. "You're not gonna believe this." His voice was raspy, decades of cigarettes and brandy.

"What?" Moe gestured to the bed. "Where's the old man?"

"In the closet," Paddy said.

Jules opened the closet door. The old man was strung up by one of his scarves around the crossbar where clothes hangers hung. His face was purple. He was wearing only a red velvet bathrobe with nothing on underneath. One hand was around his flaccid cock.

"Who did this?" Moe asked, grimacing with horror.

"He did it to himself, can't you see?" Paddy said.

Jules Meaney crouched down next to the closet door. "One of them what you call it, auto-erotic asphyxiation type deals."

"No fucking way," Moe said. His mind flashed to Lena. Did she know he was into kink like this?

"Supposedly it feels really good right before you go. Blast off!" Paddy chuckled and tossed some peanuts into his mouth. He always had some kind of nuts on him.

"Hey, knock it off," Moe said, turning to glare at Paddy. "You don't say that about him. I loved that man like a father, we all did..."

"What do you think we should do, Moe?" Jules asked Moe. "If this gets out..."

"Right," Moe said. "Let me think. It could be very bad, or at least seen that way. If he loses respect in the eyes of our associates, we could lose it too. If they know we're being led by a guy like that, we might never get the juice back again. There's dishonorable ways to die."

"Laughingstock," Paddy said.

"So we pretend he's still alive?" Jules asked.

"That'll only last for so long. He has meetings with guys all over starting next week." Moe pulled out a pack of cigarettes and threw one between his lips. His mouth was dry. "We have to admit he's dead and someone else is in control."

Jules gestured to Moe with his toothpick. "I nominate you."

"Then it'll look like I had him killed."

"Can't we say he just died in his sleep?" Jules said. "Lotsa people go that way."

Moe turned away from the other two men, drawing his first lungful from the lit cigarette. He was pacing, thinking. Then he stopped. "Wait a minute. If we can pin this on one of our enemies. Somebody who has a lot of support from people who kinda didn't mind the old man, if we can make it look like a hit, maybe we can strip support away from him. Weaken him."

"Who'd you have in mind?" Paddy asked.

Moe paused, looked back and forth between the two men, and said, "Demetrius Watson."

Paddy laughed. Moe couldn't tell if the laughter was approving or disapproving.

"He would benefit from the old man's death," Moe said. "But he wouldn't do something that crazy because he'd lose support from some other people out there in the field. People that are interested in a detente."

"A day-what?" Paddy asked.

"A truce," Jules said. "A lotta people don't want a war. Too much heat." Jules' growling rasp sounded like a shop tool.

"So we give it to them, but in a way that they can back out of and isolate Demetrius," Moe said.

"Are we prepared to go after Demetrius?" Paddy said. "Do we even know where to find him?"

"We'll find him," Moe said.

Jules nodded. "Ok, but our story about what happened here has to be tight. Somebody killed the old man, but who? Everybody in the audience out there knows the old man always had security around him up the ying yang."

Paddy said, "It would have to be somebody they'd never suspect. Somebody close to him."

Moe had a moment of panic as he thought they were about to name him. It would serve their turns, too, to have Moe under suspicion and on the run. They could turn on him in a flash. Take out all the trash at once. You just had to see the angles, and he wouldn't put it past Jules Meaney and Paddy Corrigan to figure it out. Things were friendly on the surface but they could always go south if the conditions were right. Or wrong.

The two soldiers turned to each other and said in unison, "Lena." 

Moe wanted to buck against this but caught himself. Even though the old man was dead, it would be dangerous for Moe to admit that he had been sleeping with the lady.

"Yeah, we say it was Lena," Paddy said, "and she was working with Demetrius. She was a mole. Demetrius will deny it, but everyone will expect him to deny it once they catch the flavor of the thing."

Moe was darkly impressed at Paddy's argumentation. Why hadn't he ever been able to use his fuckin head like this while the old man was alive and could have used a few good ideas?

This wasn't what Moe had in mind. But he couldn't defend her. Not without giving a tip-off to Jules and Paddy.

Paddy went on, chewing loudly. "'Sides, she wasn't doing her job. Else how come he's jackin it in a closet if she wasn't serving her function? He wasn't getting taken care of. That's on her. Blame the bitch."

Moe wanted to take a hard swing at Paddy but kept it to himself.

"So what do we do about her?" Jules asked.

"She's gotta buy it," Paddy said. "No way would we let her live if she offed the old man. We're going to do this theater act we have to do it all the way."

"Let me handle it," Moe said. He hoped she hadn't yet left his apartment on the other side of town.

"You know where to find her?" Paddy said. "You're sure you're up to this? Let me come with you, I'll take care of it."

"I got this," Moe said. "You just clean this up and make sure nobody knows what really happened here."

"How do we say he died?" Jules asked.

"Strangulation. She did it in his bed. Get some clothes on him."

#

Moe drove back across town to his apartment. His mind was racing. A window of time that he had to get rid of her, and it had begun closing.

He actually allowed himself to contemplate killing her. As he got on the freeway he started to panic. The moment he cosigned to Jules and Paddy the fiction that Lena had strangled the boss, he'd signed her death warrant. No way would they let her live.

Why had the old man done what he'd done? What kind of sick fuck hangs himself? He should have had a phone on him that he could text for help—or something. If you even had enough of a brain while it was happening to call for help.

Moe got to his apartment, and as soon as he got inside he said, "Lena, wake up, Lena." The apartment was dark, except for the fish tank. He saw a shape moving in front of it, across the room then disappeared.

"Lena, we gotta go," Moe said.

A hard punch hit him in the kidney. Moe lost his breath and crumpled to the floor.

"Turn on the lights," a familiar voice said.

When the lights came on and Moe could see again, he saw Demetrius Watson sitting in Moe's recliner. Demetrius had a sweater on under his leather jacket that was pure white, like clouds. He was wearing tiny spectacles. They looked like loupes or what a banker might wear from yesteryear. His head was shaved as usual. He had a snub nose revolver in his right hand.

On the couch Lena sat with duct tape around her mouth. He hadn't heard her when he came in, even after he'd said her name. She was fully dressed which meant they had allowed her to put her clothes on. Next to her on the couch was Pete Pries, a tall, thin pervert with an Adam’s apple out to here, that Moe knew was dangerous, who Demetrius kept on a short leash. Moe had heard stories of Pete Pries throwing an old fence out a window from like the fifteenth floor, all over some jewelry the man wouldn't take.

Another man behind Moe, the one with the power punch, jerked him up by the elbow. 

"Let her go," Moe said.

"No no," Demetrius said. "I'll let this fine bitch go when you do me a favor."

"What's that?" Moe said. His mind went to another stage of racing and plotting. If they killed Lena, that would serve his turn, sorry to say. But that meant they would probably kill him too.

"I want you to guarantee me an audience with your boss."

The dead man.

"I bet he don't know you been blending his woman, and I bet you don't want him to know. So to me that's like the cherry on top of this here. I got leverage over you. I know he'd chop you up and feed you to the Korean if he ever found out."

"True," Moe said. "You want to talk to him tonight?"

"No I thought we'd wait for next Wednesday, after he gets back from his vacation on Martha's Vineyard. Yes, motherfucker, tonight."

"What do you want to talk about?"

Demetrius just stared.

"I ask," Moe said, "because you know there's some topics that he'd be more open to than others. If I'm going to arrange a meeting I'd like to know what it is."

"Just tell him Demetrius wants to talk about the big picture."

"Ok," Moe said. He turned around and said, "I'm going to get my phone," to the guy behind him, to get permission so the guy didn't think he was going for a gun.

He dialed Jules. Jules picked up.

"Don't talk, Jules, I got something to say. I'm here with Demetrius."

"Really? You okay?"

"I was going to get Lena but he and Petey got the drop on me. He's got me in the hot seat right now."

Jules grunted.

"D wants to talk to the old man," Moe said, praying that Jules was a smart enough cookie to see the shot. "Can you wake him up?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, wake the old man, tell him to look alive, and get him ready for a meeting with Demetrius." Come on, Jules, Moe thought.

"Where's this meeting happening?" Jules asked.

Moe lurched in his mind for some location. "Chucky's warehouse." He palmed the phone and said to Demetrius, "You know where Chucky's warehouse is?"

Demetrius nodded.

"Get some coffee into the old guy and get him to Chucky's," Moe said to Jules. "I'm assuming this meeting is going to be civilized so make sure we got some guys there, Demetrius will do the same."

Demetrius waved Moe closer, gestured that he wanted the phone. "Who is this?" he said to Jules once he got it away from Moe.

Moe couldn't hear Jules' answer.

"I just want y'all to know that I got your lawyer and Lena with me here. I'm bringing them with me. If y'all got any tricks up your sleeve I'm going to let both of them have it, right in front of the old man, cause I know he's like way sentimental about his people."

Moe tried to think back on every prior conversation with Jules Meaney to try to evaluate whether the man was the type to be able to figure this thing out. Whatever this thing was.

#

When Moe came into the darkened room at Chucky’s warehouse forty minutes later and saw what they'd done with the old man he knew they wouldn't have much time: seconds at most. 

They were standing in the entryway of a side room in the main warehouse, looking in, Lena squirming with Demetrius' gun in her back, Moe as a human shield for Petey against whatever angles Barboa or Jules or whoever had set up. Another gunman lurked behind Petey. The old man was wearing sunglasses, propped up in a chair behind a desk in a pool of shadow. He looked stern and since it was dark you might mistake him for a living guy if you didn't look too close. A cigar burnt in an ashtray in front of him, a nice touch, Moe thought. Jules and Barboa stood behind the old man, which seemed to lend the whole thing credibility. Barboa brandished a Steyr TMP.

Jules, behind the old man, said, "He doesn't feel too good, just talk, he'll listen."

This would be the moment to notice the guy was dead, Moe knew, but somehow Demetrius was fooled in the dim room and started to speak.

"We've known each other a long time, you and me," Demetrius said, addressing the corpse, who seemed to listen. "It didn't have to go like this. Could have had you clipped plenty of times, had you in a tight spot, but I let you live. Now you're going to listen to me. And you're going to agree with me and I'll let your people go."

Moe looked from Demetrius to the corpse and back again.

"You're going to introduce me to your man. What's his name. Zeke. You're going to share Zeke with the rest of us. No more of being greedy. Moe knows what's right. Don't you Moe?"

"I think I know what's best for all of us," Moe said. "Jules, you get Zeke on the horn, start setting up a meeting."

"Smart guy," Demetrius said.

"But before you do anything like that Jules, I want you to do one thing."

"What's that." Jules sounded numb, no way out.

"Do the old man."

"What?"

"You heard me." Moe had to somehow get across in these few seconds how serious and crucial the move was.

"You've had it," Moe said to the old man as Jules, through some miracle understanding the crazy logic somehow, raised his gun to the man's back. It would look to Demetrius and his people like some elegant unforeseen double-cross.

The gun went off, deafening everybody in that small space. The old man jumped in his chair and fell to one side. Pulling the trigger must have been quite a labor for Jules, a lot to get over. Lena screamed, and in his shock at the old man's apparent death Demetrius let go of her for a second. Moe threw a savage elbow up behind him, hoping he'd connect with Petey's jaw. He did. Lena quickly went around the desk down on her knees to where the old man lay. She was crying. 

Petey recoiled from the shot to the jaw, produced a knife and slashed at Moe, slicing through the arm of Moe's suit down into his forearm. The thug behind Petey came out to aim a gun at Jules but Barboa raked him with bullets from the Steyr. Moe felt the energy of the bullets hitting inches away from him and the burst of blood spray on his face. 

Jules with his cannon shot Demetrius in the chest and the man's glasses leapt off his face. Demetrius, still in shock and trying to understand the betrayal of the old man, dropped down on one knee. Petey aimed the knife at Moe's throat in a upward stab and Moe blocked it with his hand and got the knife stuck through the palm. It was like getting your hand caught in a trap, shock at first, the pain would come in a few seconds. Barboa fired another burst at Demetrius, making him jerk and dance like a puppet in a new red sweater for a second.

Petey and Moe fought over the dagger buried in Moe's left hand, Petey using both his hands to try to dislodge it, Moe using his right hand to keep it where it was. Blood coursed down Moe's arm, he could feel it wet at his elbow. He saw over Petey's shoulder as Paddy Corrigan carrying his own favorite .38 snubnose came around the corner behind Petey, and he could have shot him but instead shouted "Hey Peter." Petey turned slightly to look back, and his face caught Paddy's block of a fist hitting him as hard as he could. Petey went down and relinquished the handle of he knife buried in Moe's hand. Paddy stood over Petey, shouting as he unloaded the snubnose into him.

The smell of gunpowder was powerful in the aftermath. Moe's eardrums were crumpled and melting from all the close gunfire. He found himself crouching by the desk. With shaking fingers Moe pulled the knife's blade out of his left hand and tossed it clattering across the floor. He examined the wound. How much was he bleeding? Jules crouched down with him and said something Moe couldn't hear. "I think I need a doctor," Moe said.

Lena scrambled over to them and began pummeling Jules with blows, shrieking at him, "Why'd you kill him, why'd you kill him. And you, why'd you tell him to?" 

She didn't realize that Moe had just saved her life. Two hours ago, she was going to be hunted and killed by Jules and Paddy for something she didn't do: killing the old man. She was expendable. Now there was a new story, a new arrangement. Demetrius was dead, a war was probably coming but with one less adversary. Everything freed up. Now that Lena's death could be avoided, the only question was how much to tell her about what really happened. Let her in on the ruse, or let her think the old man was betrayed in the last seconds of his second life. Always aware, as Moe was, that there might at some point be a further need to drop silence over her. The story could change again at any time.

—

This story was rejected by publications for being too implausible. I can see that. But it was fun to write. Kind of a Weekend at Bernie’s thing.