Dobyns - Saratoga Payback

M ickey Martin had what an acquaintance called urinous breath: a potent alkaloid whiff mixed with the aroma of rotting meat, which caused those whom he had snared in conversation to stumble back in search of relief. He had a square head, a fringe of short graying hair and wore a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses, which magnified his eyes, giving him an owl-like expression more suggestive of cunning than wisdom. Apart from his small insurance and realty business, he specialized in gossip, slander and scandal, as well as back biting and stabbing. It was assumed to be a mix of these traits that led him into terminal difficulties, because at an hour or so past midnight during an October cold snap, someone had slashed his throat on a quiet street in Saratoga Springs, leaving his body sprawled on the sidewalk. Then, before disappearing, the killer had reached into Mickey Martins mouth and sliced out his tongue. Mickeys urinous breath would trouble no one any longer.

It was Charlie Bradshaws misfortune to discover the body. He had gone to sleep at eleven thirty, nodding off over a book about Sacco and Vanzetti; then, at three thirty, he woke with a start to realize he hadnt taken out the garbage. The truck rumbled past between seven and seven thirty every Tuesday morning, and more than once Charlie had been forced to run down the street in his pajamas and slippers, holding out a black bag of trash like a belated Christmas gift toward the trucks green and rusted maw. Usually, when the driver saw Charlie, he would accelerate and his reflected grin in the side mirror would diminish to a gray speck as the truck proceeded down the block.

So at three thirty-five, Charlie unpeeled himself from his cocoon of blanketsbeing careful not to wake Janeyput on his robe and slippers and headed downstairs. The two trash cans were at the rear of the driveway, filled with the accumulated detritus of husband, wife and teenage daughter. Then there were two recycling bins. On this night, however, the bins never reached the street, because as Charlie dragged out the trash cans he caught sight of Mickey Martin lying at the juncture of the sidewalk and the concrete path leading to the front steps, though he didnt at first realize it was Mickey. The only streetlight was half a block away, which made the figure more resemble an oversized parcel than a corpse, but Charlie had spent enough time investigating the darker side of human behavior to guess the nature of this particular parcel.

Leaving the trash cans, Charlie made his way across the grass while holding his robe closed at the neck as protection against the chill. A dark stain made an irregular circle on the concrete and half surrounded the dead mans head like a shadowy halo. Mickey wore a long, dark overcoat, dark pants and small dark Italian shoes with tassels, for he had been vain about his feet. Charlie pondered them briefly and sucked his teeth. Then he walked back to the house to turn on the porch light.

When he returned a moment later, the dark stain had taken on a red shimmer and he saw that the mans glasses were lying in the grass. Bending over with his hands on his knees, he identified the corpse as Mickey Martin. The slash across his neck was like a lipsticked, toothless smile. He didnt notice Mickeys tongue was gonethat discovery would come later. Mickeys eyes were open and he wore a dreamy, somewhat confused expression.

Charlie straightened up and massaged the back of his neck. The neighboring houses were dark and he heard no sound beyond the distant yowl of a cat. For a moment he wondered if it would be possible to drag Mickey out to the curb or even a few houses down the street to be left on someone elses front walk. It was not a thought he entertained for long. The spilled blood on Janeys sidewalk marked Mickey Martin as Charlies very own dead man. But as someone whod disliked Mickey and who had been the victim of his slander, Charlie felt no great grief for his passing; rather, he believed, as would others, that the course of Mickeys life had made early and violent death close to inevitable. Still, it was murder, and no matter how much Mickey might have deserved his fate, such conduct couldnt be permitted in the Republican community of Saratoga Springs. The trouble for Charlie was that Mickey had apparently been on his way to see him. Although Charlie hadnt laid eyes on Mickey for at least six months, he could foresee a range of personal disruption, the least of which being that hed get no more sleep that night. Along with turning on the porch light, Charlie had grabbed his cell phone from the hall table. Once more sucking his teeth, he punched in 9-1-1.