So, in a remarkably brief period of time, we’d lost eight more residents on our street. Mr. Roberts was gone, his mother was dead, and the two Byrds were effectively removed, one dead and the other doing time. Then too, the four little Byrds were packed off with relatives. Add in Murphy and the shopkeeper and we had a regular exodus on our hands.
Chapter 12
I kept Murphy abreast of the neighborhood activities throughout these unhappy community events. He didn’t have much interest though. The news of Mrs. Byrd’s death barely perked him up. He said he was surprised that Byrd killed her, didn’t think he had it in him. Said he had him figured for a wimp who liked to talk.
After thinking about it for a few minutes longer, he remarked on the similarity of the homicides of Mrs. Byrd and the shopkeeper. I was somewhat surprised; the police certainly hadn’t connected the two crimes. Murphy always was a sharp one.
Other than these few words of conjecture regarding Mrs. Byrd’s murder, Murphy remained aloof from the world outside his prison. Not entirely by choice as I well knew. He was changing I could see and becoming more a part of the prison world. The regimen I thought was not good for him at all. Not a bit. He had become gray in personality as well as in color. And his face was as gray as the wall behind him. God forgive me, I was sorry. I well knew how rehabilitated he had been before this incident unfairly put him behind bars.
In looking at him I became convinced that it wasn’t only death and cancer that destroyed a person from within. Hopelessness and anguish, these too. They had certainly taken their toll on Murphy. He’d been jailed for about a month and had another month of waiting before the trial started.
When I pointed out to him that half of the wait was over, he looked agitated. Quickly then his face hardened to where it didn’t show. He snorted a laugh and said that the trial would probably only take fifteen minutes. Then you know what’ll happen he said.
I protested this comment with some vigor, adding that he should have some faith in his attorney. He should have some faith in himself. But no, Murphy shook his head dolefully. It wouldn’t go his way he said. Nothing ever went his way.
While I was listening to this drivel and taking note that Murphy couldn’t be held accountable for it, I remembered a woman I’d known a long time ago. We’d been mighty friendly until she’d tried to impose her will on me. I never was sure why she did that. She never should have tried it. I’d heard her say the same thing to the man who came running to her aid. He’d heard her screaming and sobbing. That one was a fighter.
The Good Samaritan knelt beside her, held her hand, and told her the doctors would fix her right up. He said she’d be better than new in no time. It was as if he were comforting a child. She whimpered that it wouldn’t go her way. Nothing ever did. She was right too. Died right before the ambulance came. And her Samaritan cried. I was really very touched by that.
With a sigh for days gone by, I directed my thoughts back to the present and to Murphy. My friend was a longtime student of the school of hard knocks and this newest lesson wasn’t going down well. Just now he was devoting his attention to kicking the table leg. This action was so absurd that I marveled. I’d never know Murphy to react childishly before. He was at the other end of the spectrum I’d always thought. More than ready to face up to any kind of trouble. Tough and ready to stand up for himself at a moment’s notice.
I assumed he’d be back to normal soon enough and devoted my energy to amusing him and taking his mind away from his trouble. So I told him about the damned neighbor cat destroying my rosebush. How the pitiful thing had died before it ever had a chance to get a start. He had previously known of my aggravation with the beast and its antics on my property, so the memory got a smile out of him leastways.
Taking my time, I related to him the full sad history of my rosebush, even though he already knew most of it. He had watched me plant it, of course, so he was well aware of its meaning to me. He also knew that I preferred to keep my yard orderly, also anything within my line of view. I then brought him up to date on my more recent complaints to the owners of the beast.
These previously tolerable folks had lost their godgiven reason over that damned cat. They were neighbors on the other side of the alley and we’d never had a bit of trouble in the past. We chatted on occasion and kept up our yards. Wonderful neighbors who kept to themselves. Quiet. No trouble.
Not until they acquired the beast. They came to revere it as some sort of adoptive child. Allowing it to have its way and acting as servants nearly for the foul thing. My gentle but well-founded objections to that monster’s behavior were met with smiles of pride and cries of how cute. Later on, when I suggested they keep their cat on their own property, I was solemnly told that kitty would never stand for it.
After reminding Murphy of these facts, I went on to inform him of my stronger protests to these people. The first time I saw the beast digging at my rosebush, I let the neighbors know about it in no uncertain terms. I insisted they come to my yard and have a good look at it. For the first time they apologized for their cat’s bad behavior and destruction of private property.
And every time thereafter when it happened, I strenuously objected to these people. That godawful cat was spending more time at my place than at its own. I never did understand what the big attraction was.
Murphy said cats always do what they’re not supposed to do. Then he said right out, “So what’d you do? Poison it?”
Before I answered I noticed the twinkle in his eyes. He was enjoying the story and the dilemma. At once I was relieved, his sense of humor wasn’t completely buried then. When I got to the part about the cat digging in the lime, Murphy shook his head no. That won’t do it he said, cats are just like rats, they can damn near survive on any kind of crap they think is food.
He advised me to get some rat poison and mix it with ground meat and milk. Serve it up with a smile he said. The cat’ll go away to die, no one will ever know. To this I replied that I didn’t really want to kill it, just give it reason to stay off my property. We tossed it around for awhile, but didn’t really come up with anything. I surely didn’t want the responsibility of being a dog owner; that would be damn near as messy as having the cat in the yard. And I disliked the idea of getting out the hose every time the beast came around.
Yes, bad business killing other people’s pets.
Chapter 13
During the next month, I agonized over helping Murphy somehow. I kept thinking there must be a way. Nothing turned up though. And I was tired to death of thinking about it. Finally I realized that Murphy was going to have to face the music on his own power. Whatever that music might be.
Three weeks outside, I got a call from Murphy’s attorney. He informed me that there had been a fight of some sort and Murphy had gotten the worst of it. He was in the prison hospital with a couple of stab wounds, a broken rib, and a mess of bruises. This attorney, Canfield, didn’t think it was anything personal, just a brawl that sucked in everyone in the vicinity. No major damage though.
I wanted to visit Murphy and ascertain the damage for myself, but Canfield said there was a lockdown in effect. Also there were no visits at the hospital anyway. He then told me that he’d been in to see Murphy and was satisfied that he would recover from his wounds. And, he reported, Murphy was somewhat more cheerful.
That didn’t surprise me; I knew the effect of a fight on Murphy. He exulted in a good go-round and he was a natural fighter. Some of his best stories were about fist fights. Some of the best times of his life had brawls figuring heavily in the festivities.
As long as I had Canfield on the phone, I asked him if he was making any progress on the case. I’d been wondering about it I told him. Especially since I hadn’t heard anything from him. When he hesitated, I said that maybe it would be better if I came in to his office. We could discuss it then at length.
Canfield found his voi
ce pretty damn quick, saying no no, that’s not really necessary just yet. Although he would certainly want to get together with me before the trial started. As for now . . . there wasn’t much he could tell me that I didn’t already know. But he went on and ran through it anyway.
There was no solid evidence against Murphy, but he was on parole. And being at home in bed isn’t an alibi that can be verified. It was simply his bad luck to be an ex-con living in the vicinity of the crime. I strongly protested this comment by saying that Murphy had never been violent that I knew of. Canfield agreed and said that he would be pointing this out at the trial. However, he added, the matter of this fight would not help his defense any.
For God’s sake I said, did Murphy start it or was he just defending himself?
Canfield said no, he didn’t start it, but that didn’t make much difference. The fact that he had fought created a prejudice. He would try though to keep this information suppressed in court. And he hoped to God Murphy healed fast. He didn’t want the jury to associate Murphy with any kind of violence. Even as a victim of it.
Before he rang off, he mumbled something about little things piling up and ruining a case. I was appalled by his heartless comment and the whole damned mess. Nothing I could do about either.
Chapter 14
By the time morning rolled around, I was all set to deal with old man Nailor. Actually I was looking forward to matching wits with him. I was waiting for him long before I heard the puffing and snorting approaching my garage. This time around I got the jump on him, saying well sir, did you hear about the fight at the jailhouse?
Disappointment tightened his beady eyes. Before he could gather himself together enough to put in his two cents, I let fly with items two through five. Murphy was right in there too I told him. Got himself banged up a mite I hear. He’s in the prison hospital. I was just on my way over to tell you.
Old man Nailor sorely hated to be scooped, but he took it like a man. Shook his head philosophically a time or two. Then settled himself in to find out if my details were fresher than his. He always did have a good common sense approach to business.
While I had the tables turned on him, I kept them turned. Told him all about the lawyer’s call, right down to his pessimism regarding the case. He listened thoughtfully to every bit of it before he took back his rightful place as master of information transference. I should have known better than to try to beat him at his own game. That’s always a lost cause, no matter how well planned.
“Boy,” he said, “you know why Murphy was in this fight?” I hated the way his questions always came out as statements. There was nothing I could do though. I had to admit I was in the dark as to the reasons behind the fight.
Old man Nailor nodded his head an ungodly amount of time at this news. Always had to let it be known where the crumbs were really coming from. “Didn’t think so,” he said, “no, I didn’t think so.”
He gazed off for a few minutes, looking at the wall of my garage. I suppose he was in the midst of exacting arrangements of information inside his head. Or some kind of old age shutdown. Being a man of strong patience, I waited until he was ready.
I was sure that he was looking for the best way to zing me and until he found it, there would be no sense to any pushing on my part. Actually with him there would be an opposite effect and I’d have to wait that much longer. Stubborn old mule.
Then sudden, he always did it sudden after I’d relaxed from boredom, that was the trick of it. “He icepicked somebody in prison a coupla years back, Murphy did. Bad business for him to get into. Justified so I heard. Yep, killed him too . . . .”
Yes I thought, that which is buried is laid to light. I wondered why Murphy hadn’t mentioned it, then figured on the deepness of the man as the reason. Then too, murder being the sticky business that it is, he was right to keep it quiet. I could understand that, no sense advertising the fact. A moment of unending rage shouldn’t be public knowledge.
When I nodded to old Nailor to signify I’d done thinking it over, he remarked on how bad luck followed a person. It ran in streaks too he said, vicious streaks sometimes. Before I saw it coming, old Nailor added by way of explanation, “I know this guy usta be in prison. So he’s got connections. He says the one Murphy killed was the leader of some kinda gang. Bunch a mean ones they was.”
“Anyway.” Here he stopped to look me over. “I figured they’d be right after him once they knew where he was. So I checked with a guard I know here in town and he confirmed it for me just a few minutes ago. Yep. They’s on to him . . . . I’d sorely hate to be in that boy’s shoes. He’s in trouble now. He only thought he had trouble before. Don’t matter what prison it happened in. They’s on to him.”
After that long speech, old man Nailor was gasping for breath. I watched him with mild curiosity while he got himself breathing again. Even then he didn’t sound healthy. Didn’t much look healthy either. No matter, the old coot hoisted himself to his feet and told me that boy’s got himself a passel of trouble. Then Nailor was on his way again. On with his rounds.
* * *
One day soon after, the old goat asked me if I had a long black coat. Out of the blue. I was so used to his ploys by this time that I afforded him no reaction. But he was watching closely for one.
I must admit to being quite upset by the charge. It was defamatory. So, he’s trying to trick me I thought. And he was wondering if Murphy was set up – an evil blasphemous notion since Murphy was simply a victim of circumstance.
All this made me wonder what could have put him on to a ridiculous idea like that. Then instantly I knew. That horrible Mrs. Byrd must have tried to incriminate me before she died. She must have said something more to Nailor that I knew about. Not to the police, otherwise they’d have been right out to see me.
I was outraged. How common of her to wish ruin on another because of her own tawdry problems. And being dead, she could no longer be held accountable for her sins. A pity.
Moreover, I was annoyed to be continually dragged into this mess. First those detectives nosing around my business. That woman with nothing better to do in her house than list the activities outside her window. The old man constantly reminding me of an error in judgment with a woman. And now the old man carrying on the latest dead woman’s work.
I answered him after a reasonable time. Thoughtfully. No, not that I can recall anyway. Only person I know with a long black coat is Murphy.
“That’s what I thought.” Old man Nailor nodded to himself as he said this. “Yep.” He was always so damned smug and full of himself. I hated him.
I asked him straight out. So you’ve heard something more about that black coat? The one Mrs. Byrd mentioned to you. I was wondering about it, but I’ve been forgetting to ask.
Really I was surprised that the old man was taking the time to follow up on this obscure clue. So it was true after all that he didn’t miss a trick. He confirmed my thought, saying that no one else had mentioned the black coat, but it was no harm in him asking around. I was seriously annoyed now; that nosy old man just forced me to implicate my friend in a crime he had no knowledge of.
Chapter 15
It was two weeks from the trial when Murphy was released from the hospital. On the next Thursday visiting day I went straightaway to see him. It had been about ten days since our last visit. Outside I ran into Canfield, who had just left Murphy.
When I said well how’s he look, Canfield shook his head and frowned. He looked pretty well disgusted. “Slow healer,” he explained, “get him some vitamins, will you?” He didn’t want to dwell on it, so we parted quickly. I wondered at the man taking everything so to heart. It didn’t seem wise in his position.
After purchasing vitamins at the nearby pharmacy, I introduced them into the bureaucratic chain that would eventually deliver them to Murphy. If they didn’t disappear completely that is. Then I waited my turn
for one of the visiting boxes.
When the time came a bruised and sore Murphy limped and lurched his way in. Canfield was sure right about the slow healing. Murphy was busted up and no way of hiding it. He did seem right proud of himself, I’ll grant him that. And I sure can believe he put up a good fight. So I asked him how many of them he took out.
Although he grinned, his eyes were damned cold as he told me that none of them were walking around yet. His eyes became colder still when he said that one might not recover at all. I could see right off that Murphy had gotten downright icy. His toughness was back and had hardened a mite. I was glad; I hadn’t liked seeing him so downcast and meek.
I told him I’d heard he’d been raising Cain at the jailhouse. Although it was a jest, meant more as a compliment than as a criticism, he chuckled like he’d been caught drowning kittens. Kind of nervous, but ready to stand his ground if he had to.
He allowed then that the whole damned mess hadn’t been his idea. “Not against that many guys.” he said. “You know I don’t go in for that flashy stuff, boss. Only go that way on my birthday.” We laughed then and he settled himself sufficiently to tell me the tale.
Murphy set it up first, taking his time about it, and laying out the routine for me, the monotony of it, the tight schedule that dulled his mind. The attack came without warning. And it seemed from all sides. Murphy though had the reflexes of a cat and leaped away from the knife blade aimed to his heart. He told me that for a minute he thought he was dead and already in hell.
After that things were confused. Knives flashed in the darkness and fists flew out of nowhere. Murphy’s eyes sparkled handsomely at the telling of it. His voice became leisurely and expansive in detailing the injuries received on both sides. Dwelling gently on blood and broken bones. He sounded damned proud when he told of the large number of guards it took to quell the disturbance. He finished by saying, “Boss, you shoulda seen it.”