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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Abuse and Addiction: A Tale Of Dale - 10. Chapter 10
I am still amazed at the hold Dale had on me. Here I was, sitting in a jail cell seriously believing I would be spending the foreseeable future in prison—and when they offered to dismiss the charges against me if I gave them information on Dale and his supplier, I told them to go fuck themselves.
I had reasons why I didn’t want to talk. I suppose I had conscious reasons and subconscious ones. At the time, I thought my reasons were based on sanity. If I told them about Papa Doc—I didn’t fool myself into thinking it was Dale they were really after—I could kiss my ass good-bye. Papa Doc was connected. I knew that. Didn’t have to be told that—just knew it instinctively. And Dale had told me more than once that Papa Doc would shoot my ass as soon as look at me. I had no reason to doubt that. Papa Doc had never given me any reason to doubt that.
That was my conscious reason. And I fully believed that was my only reason. But I had used my one phone call to call Dale, to warn Dale. And that wasn’t because I thought I owed him that. It was because I still felt something for Dale. Life with Dale wasn’t all bad. There had been good times, times I still remember. Like when we first met. Like when he took me to dinner at the Best Western—and I had that prime rib with the freshly grated horseradish. Like when he gave me the book of poetry, Treasury of the World’s Best Loved Poems. And all the times the sex had been great. And the time he took my nightmares away from me. These were all good times. And these were what I thought about as I sat in that jail cell. These were what I was really feeling when I told them to go fuck themselves. I see that now. I didn’t see that then. And I also see that had Mark not called Roger I would have never been able to simply stay away from Dale. I would have gone back to him. Would have gone back to him again and again and again.
And pathetic as it is, beneath it all, there was part of me—a very young, idealistic, romantic-minded part of me—that imagined Dale would be there when I got out of jail. No, not waiting for me with open arms and an “I told you I would wait for you forever” look. But there, willing to take me back—even if it was on his terms. I had no illusions on that—it would be HIS terms. But he would take me back. And part of me held on to that. Part of me needed to hold on to that. I had lost Paul and considering what I had said to him, I felt certain I had lost Mark also. I wanted—needed—to believe I wouldn’t lose Dale.
My dad came to see me. Mark came with him. I knew Mark had told my dad. Knew he must have. My dad never bought the local paper. My dad didn’t get local TV. My dad didn’t go anywhere, didn’t socialize. No way he would have found out unless Mark told him. And my dad was the last person I wanted to see. My dad and I weren’t on the best of terms as it was. And a big part of me felt like a little boy around my dad. In this case, a very naughty little boy who had managed to find still one more way to shame his father. I could see that in his eyes as he looked at me.
I suppose, looking back, what I really saw in his eyes was pain. Not easy to look at your child and see him hurt. And I didn’t look great. Hell, that is a major understatement! I was bruised, cut and broken and I looked like I belonged lying in a gutter somewhere. Not easy to see your little boy looking like that. Can relate to that now. Couldn’t then. Then I only saw him turn his head away when he looked at me.
So I lashed out at him in my customary fashion. Told him I didn’t need him, didn’t need his help, didn’t want his help. And one thing I have to say about myself is that when I am hurt, when I am angry I use a very sharp weapon: my tongue.
I looked right at him and took my best aim. “You going to help me like you did last time, Dad? You going to just talk to the right people and make everything all go away? Just going to pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend it doesn’t matter?” I saw immediately I had hit the mark.
He just got up and walked out. I looked at Mark and started yelling at him. “Why the fuck did you tell him? What fucking right do you have to drag my father into this? It’s not like he fucking gives a shit beyond how people will think of him! He doesn’t give a shit about me, and you know of all people should know that!”
Mark stood up and I could see the guard tense. “And who the fuck do you think DOES care about you, Luc? You think Dale cares about you? You think HE gives a fuck about you? Is he here? Has he come to see how you are doing? You called him. Where is he?”
“I don’t know where the fuck he is. But he cares a hell of a lot more about me than my dad does!” The words were irrational. God! I even knew that then. But I wanted to believe that Dale cared—even if he didn’t actually care more than my dad.
Mark turned away. He ran his hand through his hair. “God, Luc! How can you be so fucking stupid?” He looked at me. “Dale skipped, Luc. He was gone before he even got your message. Roger told me it was still on the machine—unplayed—when the police searched his apartment.” He shook his head. “I told you before, Luc--it’s a fucking small town. I didn’t tell your dad—he called me. And I’m sure one of Dale’s customers must have seen you getting taken away and must have told him. And you see how quickly he ran? You think he gives a fuck about you?”
I just stared at him. I don’t know why what he said made any difference to me. I hadn’t expected Dale to do anything. Hadn’t expected him to call or come. Had honestly expected him to stay away. Had even sort of expected him to run, to hide—at least on a temporary basis. That was, after all, why I had called him. But somehow expecting him to run and hearing that he actually had run… two entirely different things.
“Luc, your dad does care about you more than Dale. I care about you more than Dale. Christ, even the fucking mailman cares about you more than Dale. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see what a shit Dale is? Look what he’s done to you, Luc!”
I stood up and apparently the guard thought I was going to lunge at Mark, because he grabbed me and had the cuffs on me in an instant. He was right, I was going to lunge at Mark. “You don’t care about me, Mark. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here. Just go the fuck away, will you? I’m so fucking tired of you messing up my life. Just leave me the fuck alone. Stay the fuck out of my life!”
The guard dragged me out of the room.
“Is that what you really want, Luc?” I heard Mark’s voice behind me. No, it wasn’t what I really wanted. Of course it wasn’t what I really wanted.
“Yes!” I yelled over my shoulder.
**
“Dale skipped, Luc. He was gone before he even got your message…. And you see how quickly he ran? You think he gives a fuck about you?”
Like I said, expecting him to run and hearing that he actually had run…two entirely different things. I was wound up when they took me back to my cell. My head was racing. I was angry. I was angry with Mark for calling Roger. I was angry with Mark for saying Dale didn’t give a fuck about me. I hated him for throwing that in my face. And I hated Dale for making every word Mark said true. But most of all I think I hated myself. Hated myself for not seeing—or for seeing and not believing—or for believing and still not caring, for choosing to tell myself what I knew to be lies.
But I wasn’t analyzing it then. I was just feeling, and what I felt most was out of control. I didn’t know what to do. It was almost a panic feeling at first. I paced around the cell, banging against the bars, banging against the walls, kicking the bed. I wanted out! And I wanted a fix—badly! My head wouldn’t quiet down. I sat down on the bed and banged my head on the mattress, over and over and over until I felt like I was going to throw up. I wanted everything in my head to just end. I wanted to just end. And I couldn’t see how to make it end. Dale had run. Dale was gone. He wouldn’t be there when I got out. I had nothing left to hold on to.
So I let go. I sat there on the bed, leaning over, my face against the mattress, my head pounding and just let everything pour out of my head, out of my eyes. Good thing I was alone. Would have been one hell of a show. But when I had cried every possible tear I had in me, I felt that sense of quiet that you get after an emotional purging. It wasn’t precisely numbness. I still felt. Still felt a very deep pain, a deep sense of loss, of despair. But it was a quiet despair, a quiet, accepting despair. I knew my life was over, so nothing else mattered anymore.
I stood up and called to the guard. He wasn’t terribly friendly in his response. Can’t say I blame him. I had not been a model prisoner up to this point. I told him I wanted to talk to Detective Finch. Told him I wanted to tell him what he wanted to know. The guard gave me a look that clearly said he didn’t believe a word I was saying. But he went back to his desk and called the detective. I sat back down on the bed. My heart was pounding, my pulse was racing. The calm was leaving me. I had made my decision, now I had to go through with it. And I firmly believed that going through with my decision would cost me my life.
I sat there and thought it all through, thought what I would tell Detective Finch. I would tell him what I knew about Dale. In my mind I couldn’t see how Dale would be affected. He had already run. The best I could give them on Dale was a physical description. I didn’t know his customers. I had only seen the one—that first night in Dale’s kitchen, the first time he had hit me. And that had been a year ago. I couldn’t recall the slightest thing about him. And after that, I had learned not to venture out of the bedroom when I heard voices in the kitchen. I suppose Dale was really very shrewd. He hadn’t wanted me involved in that part of his business. For my own sake, he would always say. But I guess he was really protecting himself, making it impossible for me to do much damage to him if anything like this ever happened. I guess Dale knew how to plan ahead. So I really couldn’t hurt Dale. And maybe that was one of the reasons I did decide to talk. Maybe if I had not felt Dale would be safe, I would have never made that decision. I don’t know. Jail was not where I wanted to be. I would like to think that eventually I would have just been willing to do anything to get out of there—even at Dale’s expense. But even now I doubt it.
But I would also tell them about Papa Doc. And that was the part that made me believe that my decision to talk would cost me my life. There was no way I could reason myself out of that feeling. Papa Doc was a gang-connected drug dealer whose operation was at the very least in two counties. There was no way that giving evidence against him would do me any good. Oh, I might get handed the “Get out of jail free” card—but how long would it be before someone like Tyrell or Ramon or any one of Papa Doc’s “boys” that I wouldn’t recognize would find me? I had watched TV. I had seen the movies, the cop shows. Witness Protection Programs were for bigger deals than this. I could see myself sitting on the witness stand, Papa Doc at the defendant’s table, some of his “boys” sitting in the back of the courtroom studying my face. If—and that was a big if—I even managed to survive long enough to give testimony, as soon as the guilty verdict was pronounced, my life wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s dam.
Funny, that was my dad’s phrase. Something wasn’t “worth a tinker’s dam.” And thinking that phrase made me think of my dad. I was a major disappointment to my dad. He never let me forget that. Not with words. He never said what he was feeling. That wasn’t how my dad was. But he didn’t have to say the words. I could read his face, his body language. I had disgraced him—and that was the right choice of words. My dad was older, from a time when children could “disgrace” the family, their fathers. And I had disgraced him when I was 15 by fathering a child “out of wedlock.” I had disgraced him again when I was 16 by getting myself raped—except that never actually happened in his eyes. In his eyes it had been just one of those “locker room fights that had gotten out of hand.” And I was disgracing him again now.
And that was really what convinced me that I was making the right decision. It wasn’t like he didn’t have any other children, any other sons. He had Bob. He would still have Bob—Bob who had become respectable, who had gone from Biker Bob to Insurance Man Bob and was now earning a respectable living. I would tell Detective Finch what I knew about Papa Dock. That was the right thing to do. And maybe that would remove a little of the disgrace from my dad’s name. And then Papa Doc would remove me. And my dad wouldn’t have to live with the disgrace of having a son like me anymore.
**
I sat across the table from Detective Finch. A court reporter sat off to one side. Two guards…stood guard. I was handcuffed. Apparently they had reason to think that was necessary. I wasn’t going to try to run, wasn’t going to take a swing at anyone. But they didn’t know that. I had done both already. No reason for them to assume I wouldn’t do either again. My lawyer—such as he was—was sitting next to me.
“If I tell you what you want to know, what will happen to me?” I knew what would ultimately happen to me. But I was interested in my immediate future. Would I still get jail time? Would I get probation? What kind of deal would they offer me?
“My client is an innocent victim in all this, Detective. I plan on petitioning the court for a dismissal. You found no drugs at his place of residence, and you and I both know that possession of drug paraphernalia is a crime on paper only.”
I stared at him. Apparently he had decided to actually play lawyer.
“Perhaps, but your client did test positive for heroin, which you and I both know is an illegal substance. That hardly makes him innocent. And he did assault a guard. And he did try to escape. Your client will serve time on those charges at the very least. And I’m sure your client does not want to spend any more time behind bars than is absolutely necessary. He has a 4-year-old son I am sure he would like to see for Christmas.” Detective Finch paused, and I could feel the “dramatic pause” just as if I had been watching it on TV. He continued. “If your client is willing to tell us everything he knows about Dale Rankin and his connections, then I am sure I can get the assault and escape charges dropped. And as you say, beyond that there is no real evidence against your client.”
So, Dale’s last name was Rankin. I wondered how they had found that out when I had known him for over a year and didn’t know that.
“May I have a moment alone with my client, Detective?” my all-of-a-sudden-real-lawyer asked.
Detective Finch started to rise. I stopped him. “No, there’s nothing we need to talk about. The deal sounds fair enough to me. That’s what it is, right? A deal? I tell you all I know about Dale and his connections, and the assault and escape charges are dismissed? And you let me go for lack of evidence? Am I understanding that right?”
Detective Finch sat back down, and I could see a little smile of satisfaction on his face. I suspect he was already reading the newspaper article in his mind. “Yes, that’s right.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ok, then. Where do you want me to start?”
I told Detective Finch everything. Well, not everything. I left out a lot of my time with Dale. I couldn’t see any reason to tell him some of those things. But I told him about getting hooked on heroin—not why—just when and how. Told him about the “alleged customers” I would hear—but not see. And then I told him about Papa Doc. I could see his eyes light up, could see him leaning forward in his chair. I gave him descriptions of Papa Doc, Tyrell and Ramon. I gave good descriptions. You don’t forget the face of a man whose cock you sucked and who fucked you every week for nearly a year. And Tyrell’s face and the candy cane smell of his breath would stay with me for a long time—as would that smirk on Ramon’s face. I gave him a good description of the house—right down to the number and driving directions from I-88. And I told him that I dropped off and picked up every Thursday—had done the same thing for about 10 months. It was Tuesday and I had been in the county jail since the previous Thursday night.
Detective Finch acted like the information was questionable. Told me everything would have to check out before the deal would be put in place. But I had no doubts the information would check out. And I figured that it was unlikely Dale had warned Papa Doc. Dale wouldn’t be that stupid. Papa Doc would, of course, blame Dale and Dale’s life would be wroth less than mine—less than a tinker’s dam. So, it was Tuesday. It would be Thursday before Papa Doc would have any reason to suspect anything was wrong. I figured that Detective Finch was probably running that same thing through his own head. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I shared my thoughts with him.
“You know, you seem to be a fairly bright boy. How the fuck did you get yourself this screwed up?” Detective Finch was looking directly at me. His eyes looked right into mine. They weren’t unkind. I didn’t feel like he was accusing me or judging me. I just felt he was legitimately wondering.
And I felt I owed him an answer. “Just really good at fucking things up, I guess.”
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
I had reasons why I didn’t want to talk. I suppose I had conscious reasons and subconscious ones. At the time, I thought my reasons were based on sanity. If I told them about Papa Doc—I didn’t fool myself into thinking it was Dale they were really after—I could kiss my ass good-bye. Papa Doc was connected. I knew that. Didn’t have to be told that—just knew it instinctively. And Dale had told me more than once that Papa Doc would shoot my ass as soon as look at me. I had no reason to doubt that. Papa Doc had never given me any reason to doubt that.
That was my conscious reason. And I fully believed that was my only reason. But I had used my one phone call to call Dale, to warn Dale. And that wasn’t because I thought I owed him that. It was because I still felt something for Dale. Life with Dale wasn’t all bad. There had been good times, times I still remember. Like when we first met. Like when he took me to dinner at the Best Western—and I had that prime rib with the freshly grated horseradish. Like when he gave me the book of poetry, Treasury of the World’s Best Loved Poems. And all the times the sex had been great. And the time he took my nightmares away from me. These were all good times. And these were what I thought about as I sat in that jail cell. These were what I was really feeling when I told them to go fuck themselves. I see that now. I didn’t see that then. And I also see that had Mark not called Roger I would have never been able to simply stay away from Dale. I would have gone back to him. Would have gone back to him again and again and again.
And pathetic as it is, beneath it all, there was part of me—a very young, idealistic, romantic-minded part of me—that imagined Dale would be there when I got out of jail. No, not waiting for me with open arms and an “I told you I would wait for you forever” look. But there, willing to take me back—even if it was on his terms. I had no illusions on that—it would be HIS terms. But he would take me back. And part of me held on to that. Part of me needed to hold on to that. I had lost Paul and considering what I had said to him, I felt certain I had lost Mark also. I wanted—needed—to believe I wouldn’t lose Dale.
My dad came to see me. Mark came with him. I knew Mark had told my dad. Knew he must have. My dad never bought the local paper. My dad didn’t get local TV. My dad didn’t go anywhere, didn’t socialize. No way he would have found out unless Mark told him. And my dad was the last person I wanted to see. My dad and I weren’t on the best of terms as it was. And a big part of me felt like a little boy around my dad. In this case, a very naughty little boy who had managed to find still one more way to shame his father. I could see that in his eyes as he looked at me.
I suppose, looking back, what I really saw in his eyes was pain. Not easy to look at your child and see him hurt. And I didn’t look great. Hell, that is a major understatement! I was bruised, cut and broken and I looked like I belonged lying in a gutter somewhere. Not easy to see your little boy looking like that. Can relate to that now. Couldn’t then. Then I only saw him turn his head away when he looked at me.
So I lashed out at him in my customary fashion. Told him I didn’t need him, didn’t need his help, didn’t want his help. And one thing I have to say about myself is that when I am hurt, when I am angry I use a very sharp weapon: my tongue.
I looked right at him and took my best aim. “You going to help me like you did last time, Dad? You going to just talk to the right people and make everything all go away? Just going to pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend it doesn’t matter?” I saw immediately I had hit the mark.
He just got up and walked out. I looked at Mark and started yelling at him. “Why the fuck did you tell him? What fucking right do you have to drag my father into this? It’s not like he fucking gives a shit beyond how people will think of him! He doesn’t give a shit about me, and you know of all people should know that!”
Mark stood up and I could see the guard tense. “And who the fuck do you think DOES care about you, Luc? You think Dale cares about you? You think HE gives a fuck about you? Is he here? Has he come to see how you are doing? You called him. Where is he?”
“I don’t know where the fuck he is. But he cares a hell of a lot more about me than my dad does!” The words were irrational. God! I even knew that then. But I wanted to believe that Dale cared—even if he didn’t actually care more than my dad.
Mark turned away. He ran his hand through his hair. “God, Luc! How can you be so fucking stupid?” He looked at me. “Dale skipped, Luc. He was gone before he even got your message. Roger told me it was still on the machine—unplayed—when the police searched his apartment.” He shook his head. “I told you before, Luc--it’s a fucking small town. I didn’t tell your dad—he called me. And I’m sure one of Dale’s customers must have seen you getting taken away and must have told him. And you see how quickly he ran? You think he gives a fuck about you?”
I just stared at him. I don’t know why what he said made any difference to me. I hadn’t expected Dale to do anything. Hadn’t expected him to call or come. Had honestly expected him to stay away. Had even sort of expected him to run, to hide—at least on a temporary basis. That was, after all, why I had called him. But somehow expecting him to run and hearing that he actually had run… two entirely different things.
“Luc, your dad does care about you more than Dale. I care about you more than Dale. Christ, even the fucking mailman cares about you more than Dale. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see what a shit Dale is? Look what he’s done to you, Luc!”
I stood up and apparently the guard thought I was going to lunge at Mark, because he grabbed me and had the cuffs on me in an instant. He was right, I was going to lunge at Mark. “You don’t care about me, Mark. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be here. Just go the fuck away, will you? I’m so fucking tired of you messing up my life. Just leave me the fuck alone. Stay the fuck out of my life!”
The guard dragged me out of the room.
“Is that what you really want, Luc?” I heard Mark’s voice behind me. No, it wasn’t what I really wanted. Of course it wasn’t what I really wanted.
“Yes!” I yelled over my shoulder.
**
“Dale skipped, Luc. He was gone before he even got your message…. And you see how quickly he ran? You think he gives a fuck about you?”
Like I said, expecting him to run and hearing that he actually had run…two entirely different things. I was wound up when they took me back to my cell. My head was racing. I was angry. I was angry with Mark for calling Roger. I was angry with Mark for saying Dale didn’t give a fuck about me. I hated him for throwing that in my face. And I hated Dale for making every word Mark said true. But most of all I think I hated myself. Hated myself for not seeing—or for seeing and not believing—or for believing and still not caring, for choosing to tell myself what I knew to be lies.
But I wasn’t analyzing it then. I was just feeling, and what I felt most was out of control. I didn’t know what to do. It was almost a panic feeling at first. I paced around the cell, banging against the bars, banging against the walls, kicking the bed. I wanted out! And I wanted a fix—badly! My head wouldn’t quiet down. I sat down on the bed and banged my head on the mattress, over and over and over until I felt like I was going to throw up. I wanted everything in my head to just end. I wanted to just end. And I couldn’t see how to make it end. Dale had run. Dale was gone. He wouldn’t be there when I got out. I had nothing left to hold on to.
So I let go. I sat there on the bed, leaning over, my face against the mattress, my head pounding and just let everything pour out of my head, out of my eyes. Good thing I was alone. Would have been one hell of a show. But when I had cried every possible tear I had in me, I felt that sense of quiet that you get after an emotional purging. It wasn’t precisely numbness. I still felt. Still felt a very deep pain, a deep sense of loss, of despair. But it was a quiet despair, a quiet, accepting despair. I knew my life was over, so nothing else mattered anymore.
I stood up and called to the guard. He wasn’t terribly friendly in his response. Can’t say I blame him. I had not been a model prisoner up to this point. I told him I wanted to talk to Detective Finch. Told him I wanted to tell him what he wanted to know. The guard gave me a look that clearly said he didn’t believe a word I was saying. But he went back to his desk and called the detective. I sat back down on the bed. My heart was pounding, my pulse was racing. The calm was leaving me. I had made my decision, now I had to go through with it. And I firmly believed that going through with my decision would cost me my life.
I sat there and thought it all through, thought what I would tell Detective Finch. I would tell him what I knew about Dale. In my mind I couldn’t see how Dale would be affected. He had already run. The best I could give them on Dale was a physical description. I didn’t know his customers. I had only seen the one—that first night in Dale’s kitchen, the first time he had hit me. And that had been a year ago. I couldn’t recall the slightest thing about him. And after that, I had learned not to venture out of the bedroom when I heard voices in the kitchen. I suppose Dale was really very shrewd. He hadn’t wanted me involved in that part of his business. For my own sake, he would always say. But I guess he was really protecting himself, making it impossible for me to do much damage to him if anything like this ever happened. I guess Dale knew how to plan ahead. So I really couldn’t hurt Dale. And maybe that was one of the reasons I did decide to talk. Maybe if I had not felt Dale would be safe, I would have never made that decision. I don’t know. Jail was not where I wanted to be. I would like to think that eventually I would have just been willing to do anything to get out of there—even at Dale’s expense. But even now I doubt it.
But I would also tell them about Papa Doc. And that was the part that made me believe that my decision to talk would cost me my life. There was no way I could reason myself out of that feeling. Papa Doc was a gang-connected drug dealer whose operation was at the very least in two counties. There was no way that giving evidence against him would do me any good. Oh, I might get handed the “Get out of jail free” card—but how long would it be before someone like Tyrell or Ramon or any one of Papa Doc’s “boys” that I wouldn’t recognize would find me? I had watched TV. I had seen the movies, the cop shows. Witness Protection Programs were for bigger deals than this. I could see myself sitting on the witness stand, Papa Doc at the defendant’s table, some of his “boys” sitting in the back of the courtroom studying my face. If—and that was a big if—I even managed to survive long enough to give testimony, as soon as the guilty verdict was pronounced, my life wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s dam.
Funny, that was my dad’s phrase. Something wasn’t “worth a tinker’s dam.” And thinking that phrase made me think of my dad. I was a major disappointment to my dad. He never let me forget that. Not with words. He never said what he was feeling. That wasn’t how my dad was. But he didn’t have to say the words. I could read his face, his body language. I had disgraced him—and that was the right choice of words. My dad was older, from a time when children could “disgrace” the family, their fathers. And I had disgraced him when I was 15 by fathering a child “out of wedlock.” I had disgraced him again when I was 16 by getting myself raped—except that never actually happened in his eyes. In his eyes it had been just one of those “locker room fights that had gotten out of hand.” And I was disgracing him again now.
And that was really what convinced me that I was making the right decision. It wasn’t like he didn’t have any other children, any other sons. He had Bob. He would still have Bob—Bob who had become respectable, who had gone from Biker Bob to Insurance Man Bob and was now earning a respectable living. I would tell Detective Finch what I knew about Papa Dock. That was the right thing to do. And maybe that would remove a little of the disgrace from my dad’s name. And then Papa Doc would remove me. And my dad wouldn’t have to live with the disgrace of having a son like me anymore.
**
I sat across the table from Detective Finch. A court reporter sat off to one side. Two guards…stood guard. I was handcuffed. Apparently they had reason to think that was necessary. I wasn’t going to try to run, wasn’t going to take a swing at anyone. But they didn’t know that. I had done both already. No reason for them to assume I wouldn’t do either again. My lawyer—such as he was—was sitting next to me.
“If I tell you what you want to know, what will happen to me?” I knew what would ultimately happen to me. But I was interested in my immediate future. Would I still get jail time? Would I get probation? What kind of deal would they offer me?
“My client is an innocent victim in all this, Detective. I plan on petitioning the court for a dismissal. You found no drugs at his place of residence, and you and I both know that possession of drug paraphernalia is a crime on paper only.”
I stared at him. Apparently he had decided to actually play lawyer.
“Perhaps, but your client did test positive for heroin, which you and I both know is an illegal substance. That hardly makes him innocent. And he did assault a guard. And he did try to escape. Your client will serve time on those charges at the very least. And I’m sure your client does not want to spend any more time behind bars than is absolutely necessary. He has a 4-year-old son I am sure he would like to see for Christmas.” Detective Finch paused, and I could feel the “dramatic pause” just as if I had been watching it on TV. He continued. “If your client is willing to tell us everything he knows about Dale Rankin and his connections, then I am sure I can get the assault and escape charges dropped. And as you say, beyond that there is no real evidence against your client.”
So, Dale’s last name was Rankin. I wondered how they had found that out when I had known him for over a year and didn’t know that.
“May I have a moment alone with my client, Detective?” my all-of-a-sudden-real-lawyer asked.
Detective Finch started to rise. I stopped him. “No, there’s nothing we need to talk about. The deal sounds fair enough to me. That’s what it is, right? A deal? I tell you all I know about Dale and his connections, and the assault and escape charges are dismissed? And you let me go for lack of evidence? Am I understanding that right?”
Detective Finch sat back down, and I could see a little smile of satisfaction on his face. I suspect he was already reading the newspaper article in his mind. “Yes, that’s right.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ok, then. Where do you want me to start?”
I told Detective Finch everything. Well, not everything. I left out a lot of my time with Dale. I couldn’t see any reason to tell him some of those things. But I told him about getting hooked on heroin—not why—just when and how. Told him about the “alleged customers” I would hear—but not see. And then I told him about Papa Doc. I could see his eyes light up, could see him leaning forward in his chair. I gave him descriptions of Papa Doc, Tyrell and Ramon. I gave good descriptions. You don’t forget the face of a man whose cock you sucked and who fucked you every week for nearly a year. And Tyrell’s face and the candy cane smell of his breath would stay with me for a long time—as would that smirk on Ramon’s face. I gave him a good description of the house—right down to the number and driving directions from I-88. And I told him that I dropped off and picked up every Thursday—had done the same thing for about 10 months. It was Tuesday and I had been in the county jail since the previous Thursday night.
Detective Finch acted like the information was questionable. Told me everything would have to check out before the deal would be put in place. But I had no doubts the information would check out. And I figured that it was unlikely Dale had warned Papa Doc. Dale wouldn’t be that stupid. Papa Doc would, of course, blame Dale and Dale’s life would be wroth less than mine—less than a tinker’s dam. So, it was Tuesday. It would be Thursday before Papa Doc would have any reason to suspect anything was wrong. I figured that Detective Finch was probably running that same thing through his own head. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I shared my thoughts with him.
“You know, you seem to be a fairly bright boy. How the fuck did you get yourself this screwed up?” Detective Finch was looking directly at me. His eyes looked right into mine. They weren’t unkind. I didn’t feel like he was accusing me or judging me. I just felt he was legitimately wondering.
And I felt I owed him an answer. “Just really good at fucking things up, I guess.”
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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