Small Crimes (38 page)

‘Okay,
so I dated her.'

'Funny,
though, she didn't seem your type.'

'I
had just gotten out of jail,' I murmured. I was lonely.'

'I
still can't see it. The only thing I can see is that in some way you were
responsible for her death. My guess, you're responsible for all of them.'

I
turned to him. 'What do you want, Phil?'

'I
want to see you punished for what you've done.' He sighed. 'But I guess that's
not going to happen, at least not in this lifetime. But Joe, I hope you end up
rotting in hell.'

He
got up and walked to one of the empty tables.

I
finished my burger and ale. I didn't bother looking at him when I left the bar.
It wasn't worth letting him get to me. It was over. I squinted against the
sunlight as I walked outside. It was a new day. What was past was past.

I
drove over to my parents' house. I didn't really care about saying any
goodbyes, but there were things of mine that I wanted to give my girls. Some
football trophies, the game ball for a division championship, some books - just
some small things.

The
door was unlocked. I yelled out, nobody answered, so I went straight to my old
bedroom. As I was collecting my things, my dad walked in.

'What
are you doing here?' he asked.

'I'm
leaving for Albany tonight. I'm getting some of my things together for my
girls. I'll be out of here in ten minutes.'

He
stood silently and watched me, his face growing more haggard every second. I guess
he reached a point where he couldn't help himself.

'Look
at you,' he cried out. 'You're all beat up. God knows what you've been doing.
And you're going to go to your daughters for what? To screw them up the way you
screwed yourself up?'

I
wanted to ignore him, but he got to me. I turned to him. 'Look,' I said, 'I was
hoping we could have some sort of amicable goodbye, but I couldn't care less
anymore. Go to hell, okay?'

I
turned my back on him. I could hear him leave the room. I was a little
surprised to hear him come back less than a minute later.

'Joey,' he said, his voice not quite right, 'I
can't let you do this.' I turned around and saw that he was holding a Colt
.45,
pointing it at my stomach.

'Jesus,
where did you get that?'

He
was shaking as he held it. He started crying. 'I'm sorry, Joey, I can't let you
do this.'

'Dad,
you look ridiculous holding that gun. Just give it to me.'

I
reached for the gun. The last thing I expected was for him to use it.

He
shot me in the stomach.

I
slid down the wall and sat on the floor and watched as the red circle in my
stomach grew outward. At first all I could think was
Damn,
another shirt ruined.
Then, as I looked up at
my dad and saw him weeping, I had a clarity of thought that I hadn't had
before. I knew I couldn't blame him. He was only trying to protect my daughters
- his granddaughters. How could I blame him for that? How could I after
everything I'd done?

As
I lay there I thought about all the people who had died recently. Maybe most of
them deserved what happened to them, but not all of them. I might not have
pulled the trigger, but I caused all of it. I could have gone to Phil and
confessed my crimes. I could have sought real atonement for what I had done.
Instead I tried to hide and cheat the system, and because of that, and because
of what I was, all those people died.

I
had to be honest with myself about what happened and about other things, things
that I didn't really want to admit to myself. What happened to Charlotte was
really no great surprise. When I told Dan about Charlotte, I knew I was trading
her life for mine, but I didn't care. Just as I knew when I told him about Phil
and Susie that he wouldn't try busting Phil on a morals charge. I knew him well
enough to know what he'd do. I might have been kidding myself at the time, but
I knew all along what I was doing. That promise I made about living in a way my
daughters could be proud of - fuck, I did a lot since then that they could be
proud of, didn't I? It was as worthless as any I had ever made.

I
should also admit I killed Billy Ferguson. The story I gave Manny afterwards
was the obvious one - the guy wouldn't pay up and things got out of hand. The
truth, though, I needed that thirty grand. My luck had to change. I had to win
a few bets so I could grow that thirty grand and pay off Manny and be free of
him. That was the plan anyway. But of course the bets I made were losers and a
week later I was no better off than before. Whatever bookie gave Dan his story
was on the level.

So
there you had it. The multitude of crime I'd committed. How could I blame my
dad for what he did? He knew what I was and it was about time I admitted it to
myself.

As
I watched him weep, I had my first real unselfish thought in my life. He
shouldn't have to go to jail for protecting my girls and I didn't want them to
have to lose their grandfather.

There
wasn't much left of me. I knew I was going fast. Even if he had a change of
heart and called for an ambulance, I knew I'd be gone before they got to me. I
could barely speak, but I whispered for him to get me a pen and paper. He just
stood in front of me, his face one big crease as he wept.

It
hurt like hell to talk, but I tried again. 'Pen, paper.'

He
probably had no idea what I wanted them for, but he got them for me. It took
almost everything I had left, but I scribbled as neatly as I could, 'Sorry -
Joe' on it. I made sure not to get any blood on the paper. It wasn't much of a
suicide note, but it would do. Besides, those two words probably made as much
sense as anything I could've written.

I
pointed to his gun. I mouthed the word 'gun' to him.

Maybe
he thought I was going to shoot him. If he did, he didn't care because he gave
his gun to me. He stood in front of me for a moment, and then staggered back,
collapsing into a chair. Through his weeping, he told me over and over again
that he loved me, but that he couldn't let me hurt my daughters. At that moment
I wanted to love him also. More than anything I wanted to truly love my two
daughters.

I
put the barrel of the gun against my bullet wound. It would probably look funny
committing suicide by shooting yourself twice in the stomach, but hell, let
them prove otherwise.

It
was a struggle holding the gun up, and an even bigger struggle trying to pull
the trigger back. That's the problem with a Colt
.45;
it takes some strength to fire it. As I strained to pull the
trigger, I started thinking of Dan, of how he'd react when he heard I'd
committed suicide. It was really kind of funny if you thought about it. After
everything he had done only to end up having to go to prison when my safety
deposit box was opened. As I thought about it I started laughing. I guess with
the little

strength
that I had my laugh came out more as a wheeze. My dad probably thought I was
suffering through my final convulsions. He started weeping even harder. I
would've liked to have told him not to worry about me, but I didn't have the
strength to say anything.

So
there I was. Wheezing and straining, straining and wheezing, trying to get that
damn trigger pulled back. For a second I thought I wasn't going to make it.
Then I felt the trigger release. My whole body seemed to explode with the shot
that followed. But I just kept thinking of Dan, and maybe of other things, and
wheezing my little laugh with whatever I had left. It got so cold, but I just
kept laughing. Then I didn't feel anything. I was still laughing. It seemed to
grow louder, echoing throughout me. At first there was nothing but blackness.
Then I could see the flames. They were far away, but I was flying downwards
towards them. I was getting closer every second. And through it all I kept
laughing.

What
can I say?

I
laughed all the way to hell.