The Evil That Men Do by Dave White Page A

Someone who hadn’t believed his story earlier.
     
     
    Detective Mike Iapicca picked Donne up an hour later. He wasn’t happy about it. Donne didn’t think the detective thought he’d ever call him, and Iapicca was going to take any opportunity he had to talk to Donne.
    “Get the fuck in,” he said from his Chevy Impala.
    Donne limped around the car and sat in the passenger seat.
    “You look like shit,” Iapicca said.
    “The guy who killed my aunt and uncle yesterday just kicked the shit out of me.”
    “I see.” He took Valley Road away from Montclair. Donne was woozy and wondered if Iapicca would actually take him back to New Brunswick or to East Rutherford. “This black guy dressed in gang colors? He just happens to show up in a bar in Montclair that you’re drinking in?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How much did you have to drink?”
    “Two beers.”
    “Everyone says one or two.”
    “I would have had three, but the punch to the face kept me from finishing it.”
    Traffic slowed near a shopping area. They got caught at a red light. People sat outside a Starbucks sipping coffee. A few others stared at mannequins in a GAP window. Donne felt the drowsiness in his eyes, and he leaned back in the passenger seat.
    “You think I’m going to let you sleep in my car? Jesus, you probably have a concussion and you can’t think straight.”
    Donne couldn’t help it. His eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.
     
     
    Bryan Hackett answered his cell phone. It was Delshawn.
    “I beat the shit outta that motherfucker.”
    “Is he dead?”
    “Nah, fuckin’ bartender had a shotgun. So I shot the motherfucker’s tires and windows out.”
    “Good. How bad is he hurt?”
    “I hit him with a stool. He was bleeding all over the bar. I don’t know if he was knocked out or whatnot, but he was hurtin’.”
    Hackett rubbed his chin. Donne was only momentarily out of the picture, which meant he couldn’t slow any of this down. And while Carter might not be willing to pay up, Hackett was pretty sure he could break Carter’s wife. Hackett was glad Delshawn had listened and didn’t kill Donne. This was turning into a game. And the best games involved challenges. Donne would be a good challenge.
    He hung up the phone. This whole business venture might actually be fun.
     
    1938
     
    Joe Tenant sat with two police officers. Cigarette smoke layered the air, and the sweet smell made Tenant wish he hadn’t quit. But when he’d gotten back in the boxing ring to spar with a friend a few months back, he realized he couldn’t breathe as well anymore. This was the first time he’d had a craving since then, even though the thickness of the smoke caused him to wheeze a bit.
    “So, since you found the body you’ve had a knife held to your throat, you’ve been followed in a car, and been threatened by phone?”
    Detective Lacey was heavyset. Too many snacks, too many drinks. Tenant could take him easily, a jab to the gut, right cross to the chin. And the guy’s condescending tone was causing Tenant to seriously consider doing just that.
    “That’s what I said.” Tenant balled his fists at his thighs. The detective wouldn’t be able to see that under the table.
    “And you just decided to contact us now. The last time you saw us, you didn’t say anything.”
    “I was worried before. About my family.”
    “Why aren’t you worried now?”
    “He threatened my family anyway. He said he was going to kill me.”
    Lacey nodded and wrote something on a piece of paper. “Can you describe the man?”
    “There were two of them. One I only saw from behind on the docks.”
    “What did the other one look like? The one in your car?”
    Tenant described the pale man he had seen on the docks the other night one more time. Said the one from the backseat had an Irish accent but he didn’t see his face. And then he talked about the crowbar incident.
    Lacey rubbed his face. Took a deep breath.
    “You smashed his car? Why?”
    “He threatened my