didn't need to turn around to recognize that voice. Shit, it was Dave the cop. And here I was, holding a lethal knife and threatening murder.
This probably wouldn't do wonders for my legal defense.
My back was still to Dave. Had he seen the knife? I wasn't sure. Holding it close to my body and out of his sight, I sidled up next to some overgrown juniper bushes. "What're you doing?" Dave demanded hotly.
I flicked my wrist, and the knife flew deep into the brush and disappeared. Then I turned back around. "Hey, Dave, what's up?"
Zapper found his voice again, big time. "Officer, this muthafucka had a knife!" he screamed.
"A knife?" I said incredulously. "What in the world are you babbling about?"
"He just threw it over there, Officer!" Zapper yelled, pointing. "And he talking some crazy shit, about he gonna kill my ass!"
I rolled my eyes. "Dave, I don't know what this guy's problem is—"
"Jake, you idiot!" Dave snapped. "Intimidating a witness?! Where do you think that's gonna get you?!" Waving his arm disgustedly, he motioned for me to follow him across the street. "Come here."
Come where?
I didn't move. My feet wouldn't let me. Intimidating a witness —that sounded bad. Real bad.
Was I going back to jail?
Was I going back to jail, less than two hours after promising my boys it would never happen again?
"Dave, I'm not going back to jail."
Even in the dim light from the street lamp, I could still make out Dave's ice-cold glare. "Get over here. Now."
Terrified and zombie-like, I moved slowly across the street toward him. Macho Man was a distant memory. Behind me Zapper laughed.
Dave opened his car door and got in. I was supposed to get in, too. I wondered, was he carrying his gun? I hadn't seen it. Suddenly I had a wild, overwhelming urge to run away as fast as I could down Elm Street. There were forty bucks in my pocket—one buck for every year of my life. Maybe I could escape down to Mexico. I'd write another hack screenplay and sell it under a pseudonym, live in comfort in some forgotten Mexican beach town. Now was my last chance. Run, Jake, run! Just do it!
I opened the door to Dave's car and got in. He started up the engine.
"Where are we going?" I stammered.
Dave pulled out of his driveway and headed down the street. When he finally spoke, I was thrown by the fury in his voice. "Why'd you do it, you fool? We're talking class-A, no-fucking-around felony . I got no choice. I have to bring you in."
He turned right, heading down Washington Street toward the police station—and jail.
"But, Dave—"
"And not only that—"
"I was just—"
"You should've read the fine print on your bail agreement. Because if you intimidate a witness, your bail is immediately revoked."
What? Revoked?!
A year or two awaiting trial in the Ballston Spa County Jail, surrounded by bored, sadistic guards? I'd hang myself by my bathrobe belt.
This was just too bizarre. I mean, I was a millionaire, for God's sake, an honest-to-God Hollywood hotshot. In less than three months, a major motion picture that I wrote would be opening in malls all across America . . . and I would never get to see it.
Or maybe I'd see it in three years, if whatever prison I was in at that point got HBO. "Dave," I said, my voice shaking, "I did not commit this murder."
"That doesn't matter—"
"But your brilliant little police department thinks I did! They're not even bothering to look for other suspects, that's why I have to do it myself! And I wasn't intimidating the guy—"
"Cut the crap, Jacob, I saw you throw that knife!"
Oh, jeez. "It wasn't my knife," I said plaintively, "it was his, he was threatening me with it."
"Sure, the whole thing was his fault—"
"Look, what do you want me to do?!" I exploded. "Lie down and roll over and let the entire Saratoga Springs Police Department fuck me up the ass?"
"That's not—"
"Sure it is! Admit it, if by some fluke you and your buddies screwed up and actually found the real murderer, the chief
This probably wouldn't do wonders for my legal defense.
My back was still to Dave. Had he seen the knife? I wasn't sure. Holding it close to my body and out of his sight, I sidled up next to some overgrown juniper bushes. "What're you doing?" Dave demanded hotly.
I flicked my wrist, and the knife flew deep into the brush and disappeared. Then I turned back around. "Hey, Dave, what's up?"
Zapper found his voice again, big time. "Officer, this muthafucka had a knife!" he screamed.
"A knife?" I said incredulously. "What in the world are you babbling about?"
"He just threw it over there, Officer!" Zapper yelled, pointing. "And he talking some crazy shit, about he gonna kill my ass!"
I rolled my eyes. "Dave, I don't know what this guy's problem is—"
"Jake, you idiot!" Dave snapped. "Intimidating a witness?! Where do you think that's gonna get you?!" Waving his arm disgustedly, he motioned for me to follow him across the street. "Come here."
Come where?
I didn't move. My feet wouldn't let me. Intimidating a witness —that sounded bad. Real bad.
Was I going back to jail?
Was I going back to jail, less than two hours after promising my boys it would never happen again?
"Dave, I'm not going back to jail."
Even in the dim light from the street lamp, I could still make out Dave's ice-cold glare. "Get over here. Now."
Terrified and zombie-like, I moved slowly across the street toward him. Macho Man was a distant memory. Behind me Zapper laughed.
Dave opened his car door and got in. I was supposed to get in, too. I wondered, was he carrying his gun? I hadn't seen it. Suddenly I had a wild, overwhelming urge to run away as fast as I could down Elm Street. There were forty bucks in my pocket—one buck for every year of my life. Maybe I could escape down to Mexico. I'd write another hack screenplay and sell it under a pseudonym, live in comfort in some forgotten Mexican beach town. Now was my last chance. Run, Jake, run! Just do it!
I opened the door to Dave's car and got in. He started up the engine.
"Where are we going?" I stammered.
Dave pulled out of his driveway and headed down the street. When he finally spoke, I was thrown by the fury in his voice. "Why'd you do it, you fool? We're talking class-A, no-fucking-around felony . I got no choice. I have to bring you in."
He turned right, heading down Washington Street toward the police station—and jail.
"But, Dave—"
"And not only that—"
"I was just—"
"You should've read the fine print on your bail agreement. Because if you intimidate a witness, your bail is immediately revoked."
What? Revoked?!
A year or two awaiting trial in the Ballston Spa County Jail, surrounded by bored, sadistic guards? I'd hang myself by my bathrobe belt.
This was just too bizarre. I mean, I was a millionaire, for God's sake, an honest-to-God Hollywood hotshot. In less than three months, a major motion picture that I wrote would be opening in malls all across America . . . and I would never get to see it.
Or maybe I'd see it in three years, if whatever prison I was in at that point got HBO. "Dave," I said, my voice shaking, "I did not commit this murder."
"That doesn't matter—"
"But your brilliant little police department thinks I did! They're not even bothering to look for other suspects, that's why I have to do it myself! And I wasn't intimidating the guy—"
"Cut the crap, Jacob, I saw you throw that knife!"
Oh, jeez. "It wasn't my knife," I said plaintively, "it was his, he was threatening me with it."
"Sure, the whole thing was his fault—"
"Look, what do you want me to do?!" I exploded. "Lie down and roll over and let the entire Saratoga Springs Police Department fuck me up the ass?"
"That's not—"
"Sure it is! Admit it, if by some fluke you and your buddies screwed up and actually found the real murderer, the chief
Similar Books
