Weaver, page 4
Tone of voice matters. Those words from the officer could easily have implied he thought Eddie was full of it.
He doesn’t, though. His breath is a little too held back for that, his voice a little too thick.
He is affected by the story. Probably because he couldn’t help but imagine himself in Eddie’s shoes, wondering what he would do if someone spread a rumor like that about him.
That doesn’t mean he is about to flip and push for an acquittal—which is good, since Eddie has no interest in being let off the hook. It does, however, mean that the officer will keep listening.
And that is crucial. Only by telling the full story—all the damage he has caused—can Eddie be certain his punishment will be sufficiently harsh.
“I need a cup of coffee,” the officer says, raising an eyebrow to ask Eddie if he would like one too.
“I’m good, thanks,” Eddie replies, smiling faintly.
The officer shrugs, Suit yourself, after which he gets up and leaves the room.
He is gone a while. At first, Eddie assumes it’s a tactic. One of those classic moves to make a suspect anxious. But when the officer returns, he realizes that wasn’t the case.
Because the officer brought more than just a cup of coffee. In his hand is a short stack of manila folders held together with rubber bands. From one of them, he pulls out a photo and tosses it onto the table in front of Eddie.
“If I’m not mistaken, this guy is the next name on your list,” he says, his voice now completely stripped of the empathy from earlier. “Though I doubt even his mother would have recognized him the day this photo was taken.”
Eddie looks down at the photo, already knowing what he will find. Still, he can’t help but wince.
Aron Hanson—what’s left of him—is lying in a hospital bed, his right arm encased in plaster and resting on a foam cushion. His face is a bloated, bluish mess. His right eye is puffed up, completely shut. The left eye stares out into the room, not really focusing. His nose is covered in gauze and surgical tape, blood seeping through at the lower edges. Beneath that, his mouth hangs, half open and weirdly warped. Like he is trying to say something but is unable.
“This wasn’t a case we had jurisdiction over,” the officer says. “But I passed the names from your list to one of our guys, and he found this in the records from Newcrest PD. Turns out that dear Aron Hanson actually grew up right here in Gleamsdale.”
“He moved to Newcrest in 2015,” Eddie says, nodding. “Got a job as a garbage man . . . until he got fired for drinking on the job. He had a problem.”
“He was drunk when this happened too,” the officer replies. “But I’m guessing I don’t need to tell you that.”
Eddie slowly shakes his head, running his finger along the edge of the photo. Then he lifts his eyes to meet the officer’s.
“What and why?”
The officer nods.
“What and why.”
A WRITING TOOL FOR BIG LETTERS
NEWCREST, 2017
Drizzle hangs like a blurry filter over Newcrest’s dark streets, and the streetlights paint hazy yellow circles on the wet sidewalk. The garbage trucks wrapped up their routes long ago, yet the city still carries a faint smell of trash.
On a narrow side street, Eddie is walking with his collar turned up and a Redwater Rebels cap pulled low, its brim sheltering him from the rain. One hand is deep in his coat pocket; the other clutches a plastic bag containing items he’ll need later. If tonight goes as planned.
The bar is called Cormac’s. It lies tucked away at the end of a street in the part of town where the streetlights flicker and the dumpsters are overflowing well before midnight. The sign above its door blinks in neon red, but only partially. As though the place can’t even be bothered to advertise itself.
Eddie pushes open the door and steps into a dim room smelling of damp wood paneling and stale beer. In the background, a jukebox plays softly, its music punctuated now and then by the clack of pool balls colliding.
Lined up along the bar is a string of sorry souls. All men and all with their elbows planted heavily on the counter as though it’s the only thing keeping them upright.
Eddie only cares about one of them.
Aron Hanson sits alone at the end with a nearly empty beer standing in front of him and two more—long finished—at his elbow.
Stubbled face, greasy hair, a hoodie that promotes some local auto shop, and skin that’s way too lined for his age. The problem is obvious, though. It’s revealed with the tremor in his hand each time he takes a sip of his drink.
Eddie sets his plastic bag down on the floor and takes the barstool next to him. Then he waves the bartender over.
"Let’s get two more of those,” Eddie says, pointing at Aron’s empty bottles.
The bartender squints, then shrugs and heads to the cooler. Moments later, he places two beers in front of Eddie, who nudges one over to his neighbor.
“You’re running low.”
Aron accepts it without looking up, and then exhales with a low chuckle as if he finds it amusing for some reason.
“Christ, Aron. At least say thank you to the guy,” the bartender grumbles, but Eddie waves him off.
For a while, they sit in silence, slowly sipping their beers. Then, all of a sudden, Aron nods to himself, as if concluding a lengthy internal debate.
“Thanks,” he mutters, raising the bottle a few inches off the wood. “For, um . . . this.”
“You’re welcome.”
Now, Aron lifts his head at last, his eyes unfocused.
“Hey, do . . . do I know you?” His voice is coarse, broken by booze and cigarettes.
“Doubt it,” Eddie replies. “I’m not from around here.”
“Lucky you,” Aron grumbles.
“Not a big fan of Newcrest, I take it?”
Aron widens his bloodshot eyes and shoots him a look that says, Are you kidding me? Then he raises one hand, index finger extended, and points straight at Eddie.
“People in this shitty city will screw each other over just for the hell of it.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience,” Eddie says, even though he already knows all about Aron’s current situation. He has done his homework.
“Oh, you bet your ass I am,” Aron mutters, finishing off his beer in one large gulp. “I just got canned. Or . . . laid off. Fancy fucking words.”
Eddie signals the bartender—Two more, please—and then lets out a heavy sigh.
“Yup. Been there a couple times myself. You bust your ass, and what’s the reward? A goddamn pink slip! Where was it? Your job, I mean.”
“MacKinnon Renovation,” Aron says with a voice that tries to sound indifferent but doesn’t succeed. “Two years and six months. And then the kick.”
“Garbage man, right?”
“Bit of everything. Trash, scrap, hauling containers. Did some welding, some driving. I was there almost every day—even when I was sick. Hell, I helped them rig a new radiator for their damn Chevy when they couldn’t find one. But then, one single slipup, and I was out.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows, prompting Aron to nod vigorously as if to say: It’s the truth. I ain’t no liar!
“I . . . had a couple cans in my coat pocket one Tuesday morning.” He smirks with a hint of sadness in the eyes. “No big deal. Didn’t even drink on site—just a few before work, you know?”
“And that was enough to get you fired?”
Once again, Aron’s finger shoots up—ironically, at the exact moment a piercing guitar solo kicks in over the jukebox speakers, perfectly timed to provide dramatic background music for his speech.
“If only that w-was it,” he says. “They didn’t just fire me. They threw me out in front of the whole crew!”
“Just like that? After two years?”
“Yup. Wanted me gone.”
Eddie leans back, feigning surprise and indignation. Then he narrows his eyes:
“Wait a sec. MacKinnon Renovation . . . I think I’ve read about them. They’re brothers, right?”
“That’s them!” Aron bursts out. “Ricky, Dale, and Joel. They’re the goddamn mafia, man. They’ve got their hands in everything—city council, the cops, the salvage auctions. They think they own all of Newcrest. And in a way. . . they kinda do.”
Eddie glances around like he wants to check that no one is listening. Then leans in closer to Aron, lowering his voice.
“Sounds like someone ought to teach them a lesson. Put them in their place.”
Aron’s expression shifts—confused, anxious, then thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s obvious that the idea appeals to him.
“Ever done anything about it?” Eddie asks. “Let them know you won’t just bend over and take it?”
Silence—pregnant with consequence. Then Aron shakes his head. Slowly.
“They’re . . . not exactly harmless,” he says. “I’ve seen Dale knock a kid’s teeth out for nicking a pallet with a forklift.”
Eddie shrugs and slides another beer over to Aron. Then he leans down and picks up the plastic bag from the floor. He doesn’t open it, just places it on his lap, ready for the big reveal.
“I’m not saying you should march up and shout it in their faces,” Eddie says. “You could be a little more . . . anonymous.”
“What do you mean? Send a fucking letter or something?”
“A message, yes,” Eddie replies, tapping the bag. “But I’m thinking something bigger.”
“What the hell is it you got there?”
“A writing instrument for very big letters,” Eddie says, handing him the bag.
Aron peers into it with his bleary, drunken eyes . . . and slowly, a grin spreads across his lips.
“What do you say we take a little ride over to MacKinnon Renovation?” Eddie asks.
Aron answers—not using words, but by nodding frantically as he pulls the contents of the bag out.
A yellow spray can.
THE MASTERPIECE
MACKINNON RENOVATION HQ, NEWCREST, 2017
The headquarters of MacKinnon Renovation is a low concrete building in Newcrest’s industrial district, flanked by garages and overflowing dumpsters. A rusty sign over the front door bears their logo: a bulldog clenching a trash can in its jaws.
The fence surrounding the property is old but not broken. Or rather, it wasn’t until a few days ago when Eddie snipped a neat opening with a bolt cutter and then hid it behind a weathered board.
That very board is what he points to now through the rainy windshield.
“I think we can get in over there. Isn’t there a hole in the fence?”
Aron squints and leans so far forward in the passenger seat that his forehead almost touches the window.
“Maybe,” he mutters. “I . . . I can’t really see. The, um . . . because of the rain.”
His voice is muddy and slow. Eddie got him out of the bar at exactly the right moment. Two more beers, and Aron would’ve been snoring in the passenger seat.
“Let’s do it,” Eddie says, pushing open the door. “Grab the bag, will you?”
Aron nods and bends down to pick up the plastic bag from the car floor. Inside of it, the spray can clicks faintly as he struggles with the door handle.
When he finally stumbles out, he has to brace himself on the car roof to keep from tipping over.
Oh yeah, he got him out at just the right moment.
At the fence, Eddie pulls the board aside and motions for his drunk partner to go through.
Aron hesitates for a beat, blinking like he is trying to figure out how he ended up here. Then he ducks through the gap.
Inside the grounds, the asphalt gleams like black glass under the glow of the streetlights, and each step they take sends tiny ripples through the rain puddles. Somewhere nearby, a loose gutter rattles in rhythm with the wind. It’s hard not to feel a little on edge. After all, the fence marked a turning point. They’re on private property now.
“That’s a good spot,” Eddie whispers, pointing to a concrete wall behind the dumpsters. “They won’t be able to see you from the road.”
Aron nods and fumbles for the spray can in the bag. When he finally gets it out, he tries to shake it, but the motion is sluggish. Fogged by booze.
“What, um . . . what do I write? Like, Fuck MacKinnon?”
"I was thinking something a bit more personal. Something that humiliates them the way they humiliated you.”
Aron’s jaw works as though he is chewing on the possibilities. Then he steps up to the wall and raises the can.
The first few letters turn out shaky and crooked, but slowly he finds his rhythm—and the courage to lean into the profanity.
MACKINNON BROTHERS
SCREW OVER THEIR EMPLOYEES!
SLAVERS!
RICKY MACKINNON IS A FAGGOT!
MACKINNON BROS BANG
THEIR OWN MOM!
The can rattles and hisses—and Aron laughs like a madman as he starts drawing male genitals and middle fingers. He is in the zone now, completely absorbed in his own masterpiece.
It’s almost too easy.
“I need to take a leak,” Eddie says. “Back in a sec.”
“Sure,” Aron mumbles, not releasing his gaze from the wall.
Smiling, Eddie walks behind the dumpsters, out of Aron’s line of sight, and pulls out his phone.
All four numbers are saved in his contacts—the three brothers’ cell numbers and the company’s main line—and all four get the same message.
A man has broken into your company property. He’s painting graffiti on the office building. Come quick!
He waits a moment, making sure at least two of the four have seen the message. Then he pops off the phone’s back cover, takes out the prepaid SIM card he bought just for this, and snaps it in half.
One piece into a puddle. The other he chucks into the shadows beneath a dumpster.
Once that’s done, he moves over to the corner of the dumpster and glances in Aron’s direction.
The spray mist hangs thick in the air like a greasy, yellow haze around the wall, and the messages have only gotten cruder.
Eddie stays like that, hidden in the shadows behind the big dumpsters, watching the vengeful artist who hasn’t got the slightest clue what is coming his way.
He could leave now. Aron wouldn’t notice, and it wouldn’t change the inevitable outcome.
Eddie doesn’t want to leave, though. He wants to watch.
A couple of minutes. That’s all it takes before the roar of a car engine tears through the night’s silence, and a beam of light sweeps across the wet street outside the fence.
It’s not that Aron doesn’t try to run. He does try. The problem is that the alcohol has wrecked his balance. So, when he bolts away from the black pickup truck now plowing through the gate, he only manages a few clumsy steps before he trips and crashes into the wall.
Now he sits on the ground, dazed and terrified, as the beams from the truck’s headlights grow on either side of him, exposing his hate-filled masterpiece on the wall.
The truck doors fly open on both sides, and three dark silhouettes—who Eddie figures must be the MacKinnon brothers—jump out. At least, they fit Aron’s description of being not exactly harmless.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” one of them yells, and when he points at Aron, just to make it absolutely clear who the question is for, Eddie notices he is holding something in his hand.
Something cylindrical that glints when the truck’s headlights hit it.
A metal pipe.
“I’m n-not . . . I didn’t . . .” Aron stammers, crab-walking backward across the slick pavement.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY, YOU FUCKING BUM?” the man with the pipe yells. “WANT US TO SNAP YOUR WRIST?”
“N-no, Dale,” Aron sobs. “Please, I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Aron?” one of the other dark figures says. “Fucking Aron Hanson! Is that you, boozehead?”
Aron latches onto the recognition like a drowning man.
“Yeah, Ricky!” he almost screams out. “It’s me! I just had too much to drink—I’ll fix it, I swear. You . . . you know me. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just a bad joke. I’ll pay for it. I swear.”
For what feels like an eternity, he gets no response. The three brothers just let him sit there in the beam of light, shivering like a lost baby bird in the cold.
Then the man with the pipe steps forward, rain dripping off his sleeves, his boots splashing softly as he closes the distance.
“You want to pay for it?” he thunders. “Well, okay then.”
From his spot behind the dumpster, Eddie sees the realization wash over Aron’s face as the words sink in—and even though he has been fantasizing about this moment for years, he can’t help but grimace in discomfort.
The metal pipe smashes into Aron’s left cheek, crushing something beneath the skin and dropping him to the asphalt like a crumpled piece of paper.
Meanwhile, the other two MacKinnon brothers step forward and start kicking him in the ribs from both sides.
Aron groans, wails, and whimpers, but to no avail. These brothers show no mercy. They kick and punch until he is lying completely still on the ground, while traces of yellow paint from the spray can and bright red blood from his ear swirl together into an orange spiral in a puddle beneath his head.
Only when the three attackers are done and turn their backs on Aron’s broken body does Eddie do the same.
And like them, he doesn’t look back.
It’s over now. Aron Hanson’s debt has been paid.
THE INTERROGATION, PART 4
GLEAMSDALE POLICE DEPARTMENT, 2018
Silence hangs heavy in the room. The officer lets it stretch on, doing nothing but sitting with his hands clasped in front of him and his gaze fixed on the photograph of Aron Hanson in the hospital bed.
It’s still lying there, front and center on the worn table. Right between Eddie and him. The harsh light overhead makes the image almost unbearably vivid.
