Sunday Storytime - 04.21.04
Murdered For Nothing
Hi loyal reader!
“Murdered For Nothing” is the title of my first crime novel, based on a true story. I covered this series of murders and subsequent trial as a young journalist. You can buy the full book on Amazon, and I hope you do. Today’s story is the first chapter of the book.
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Thank you for helping get the word out about Distant Perspective! Here’s today’s story.
-Gary
A blast of cold wind came through the door as snowflakes swirled around the two men who entered Rick’s 87 Lounge. Although the snow fell quickly to the floor and melted in the warmth of the room, the chilly puff of air made it all the way to where Martha Retaglia was sitting on her stool behind the bar. It sent a shiver up her spine.
Martha, and her husband Richard had owned the little corner bar for going on thirty-five or so years now. A simple corner bar in a nice but aging little neighborhood on Rochester’s south side. It had been a popular gathering spot, back in the day. Friday night fish fries, Sunday afternoon Buffalo Bills football games, and of course, a couple of beer taps that seemed to be directly connected to the nearby Genesee Brewery, providing an endless supply of “Genny”, and “Genny Light" for the ladies trying watch their waistlines. Faded pictures of some of those moments had been hung, somewhat randomly, on the walls around the establishment. Removing the old photos wasn’t an option because of the rectangles of clean paint that would be revealed behind them.
She had wanted to sell the bar for quite some time, but Rick was as married to the place as he was to her. Martha, just like the bar, was well past her prime. At 72 years of age, keeping the place open until 2AM, six nights a week was tough on Martha. Three years her senior, Rick was also tired. In fact, on this early November night, His bad hip had been hurting so much that he had gone home early. A cold, damp winter was settling over the region somewhat early this year, and his aging joints were making their objections known. In a familiar ritual, Rick’s sister Celia, also in her 70’s, had come in to keep Martha company.
It’s not like Martha needed any help to run the bar. They had shut down the kitchen a couple of years ago, and tonight there had only been four patrons in Rick’s 87 all night. Just one was still there. Hank Buscomb was a regular and, since his wife died two years ago, he had no reason to be anywhere else. He, too, was there mostly to keep Martha company. Money from the three beers he drank all night wasn’t even enough to keep the lights on.
The small TV mounted in the corner behind the bar was also on. Johnny Carson was chatting up some B-grade actor that none of the three had ever heard of. She was beautiful but not very interesting, and Carson was grabbing some laughs at her expense. It was barely holding Martha’s attention, but there was nothing else to do. That is, until the two strangers walked in.
Martha glanced at the clock. It was already after one in the morning. New patrons almost never came in at this late hour, and certainly not two that she had never seen before. They wore dirty hooded sweatshirts under well-worn winter coats, a layering technique common to all Upstate New Yorkers, used to combat the brutal winters. Wait a minute, she thought to herself, I do know one of them. He had been the cook in the bar’s kitchen. When they closed it a few years ago, they had to let him go. She pegged the guy with him, with the long, unkempt hair, as being in his 20’s. The cook, the one with the eyes that didn’t seem to look in the same direction, was a bit older. Maybe a tick or two past 40. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name. Might be father and son, was the thought that flicked through her mind. Unshaven and fairly disheveled as they were, she began to move towards the beer taps. These guys weren’t going to be ordering Daiquiri’s.
Whoosh!
In an instant, without provocation and without saying a word, the younger man pulled a piece of steel pipe out from under his coat and swung it with brutal force against the side of Hank Buscomb’s head. Air whistled through the pipe as it whizzed toward Hank.
Thump!
When it landed on Hank’s skull, the sound was like someone had dropped a watermelon. Hank jerked to his left, his arms flailed, and he fell to the floor. Laying on his side with a river of blood beginning to flow from his scalp, Hank let out a yelp that woke Martha’s old dog, Whiskey. Half-blind and hard of hearing, this commotion got him up off his bed in the corner by the cigarette machine. Whiskey let out a hoarse, old-dog bark as the man swung the pipe against Hank’s skull once again. Hank’s body twitched and jerked, but this time he made no sound. A dark pool of blood quickly drew an expanding circle around his head, like a crimson halo. The old cook, Bobby was his name Martha now remembered, stepped in it as he moved to the bar and grabbed her by the arm with a powerful grip.
“Give me the money!” His breath stank of rotting teeth as he squeezed her arm so tightly that her fingers began to feel numb. “The money!”
“Okay, okay,” Martha stammered. In all their years of running the bar, they had never been robbed, and certainly not by a guy who used to work there. This was a corner bar, just a simple place for friends in the neighborhood. It wasn’t the sort of place that invited trouble like this. Getting robbed had never occurred to Martha. It also had never occurred to her that Okay, Okay would be her last words.
Celia had stumbled and fallen down behind the bar, under the TV, and was gasping with shock. Martha turned around to the old cash register on the back bar as the younger man came around the end of the bar towards her. With trembling hands, she pushed the lever that would open the drawer. The little bell rang at the exact instant that the pipe made contact with the back of her head.
The medical examiner would later testify that this first blow likely ended Martha’s life. But Carl “Butch” Cantwell wasn’t educated in the finer points of physiology. He was a believer in the Get a Bigger Hammer school of thought. As she laid on the floor, the 26-year-old high school washout landed the pipe on Martha’s skull four more times with enough force to make her eyeballs pop out of their sockets.
While Butch was making sure the deed had been finished, Bobby Armhault came around the bar and shoved his dirty fingers into each of the dividers in the cash drawer, stuffing the contents into a paper bag he found next to the cash register. There wasn’t much there, but he wasn’t taking the time to count it right now. He wasn’t very good at counting anyway.
Celia had been trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible under the TV shelf. Stifling every bit of noise that she could, it almost worked. But when Cantwell finished making sure Martha wouldn’t be able to identify him, he aimed the 18-inches of steely death at Celia. In a brief instant of connection between two people, Celia stared directly into the man’s eyes. If the eyes are the window to your soul, as William Shakespeare said, Celia knew instantly that this man’s soul had gone dark. She saw not so much as a single glimmer of humanity in them.
“No! Please!” Celia’s final words were not effective. The pipe struck her left temple as she managed one final oration. “Aauughh,” was all she managed to get out as her heavily damaged head hit the floor. She coughed, and blood spattered out of her nose and mouth as life abandoned her. Butch landed two more blows, just to be sure. Bubbles of blood gurgled from her as the last air in her lungs slowly seeped its way out.
“R-R-R-R, WOOP.” Whiskey was as old and arthritic as his now-deceased owner. His voice was no longer strong, as it had been in his younger years, and his gait was stiff and lop-sided. But he knew things were wrong and he was doing what he could to raise the alarm. No one who cared would hear him. Butch and Bobby ignored the old dog as they rifled through the women’s purses and Hank’s wallet for more money, finding almost nothing.
Then, the only place left to look for cash was the cigarette machine on the wall opposite the bar. Butch swung the pipe at the glass front.
The glass splintered into a thousand pieces and scattered around the old linoleum floor. Some of it got stuck in Hank’s blood, which was continuing to spread, more slowly now, across the room. Butch again swung the pipe at the machine, this time aiming for the old plastic coin slot. The brittle façade, with its faded and worn paint, shattered, revealing the small coin box inside. Bobby dumped the coins in the paper bag as Butch dropped the pipe and grabbed the packs of cigarettes that had been offered for sale by the now-destroyed vending machine.
In all, the bloody robbery had traded the lives of three people for thirty-seven dollars and fifty-three cents, and 34 packs of smokes. The two men wouldn’t know exactly how small their take had been until they counted the money several hours later. But now was not the time for money counting. They still had work to do.
“Find some paper. Toilet paper, newspapers, whatever the fuck you can find,” Bobby Armhault told his younger partner. Thinking that the best way to coverup a crime was with another crime, Bobby was busy stuffing anything that would burn into a trash can at the end of the bar. When Butch returned with an armload of hand towels and napkins, Armhault stuffed them in the trash can and pulled a lighter from his pocket. The two stood back as they watched the fire grow.
The old wooden bar and the ancient varnish that covered it began to ignite as though the entire thing had been one giant match, just waiting to be struck. In less than a minute, thick smoke began to fill the bar. Coughing from the acrid smoke, Butch and Bobby rushed to the door. The fire had already been more successful than they expected, and they needed to get out of there. As they slammed the door behind them, they heard Whiskey continuing to issue his barks, warning that things were terribly wrong. Less than a minute later, Whiskey’s yelps would grow frantic, then weaker and, finally, silent.
To read the rest of the story, get a copy of my book, Murdered For Nothing on Amazon. It’s available in Kindle, Paperback, and Audio Book narrated by yours truly. And don’t forget to refer your friends to Distant Perspective.