Read Online The Hanging Tree by Bryan Gruley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bryan Gruley
Tags: Mystery
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“Open up, fuckhead.”
I took another look at the shoe tree. “You’re right,” I told Darlene.
“Gracie was no angel but—”
“I know. She didn’t deserve this. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
six
Cold whipped across my face as I rolled my window down. D’Alessio had hidden his eyes behind unnecessary sunglasses.
“Frankie,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Can’t be parking here.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of town. “Got to move it along.”
D’Alessio had come to Starvation from Detroit as a boy. His father had been a Detroit cop who got sick of the shot-up streets and falling-down houses, so he came up north and bought a grocery store in town. Frankie had a wife and a couple of kids. He skated in the Midnight Hour Men’s League. Not a lot of skill, but a knack for whacking the top of your skate with the heel of his stick when you weren’t looking, something I hadn’t had to endure when I was playing goalie.
He also carried a barely disguised hard-on for Channel Eight’s on-air reporter, Tawny Jane Reese.
“What do you think?” I said. “I hear you’ve got a suicide note.”
“Crazy little bitch,” he said, meaning, I assumed, Gracie. “No comment.”
“It’s not a suicide.”
“All communications with the press should be directed to the sheriff or the on-duty press liaison.”
I chuckled. “Tell me, Frankie. How do I get you to leak me stuff like this so-called suicide note? I hope Tawny at least gave you a hand job.”
I didn’t really think she’d ever given in to D’Alessio’s come-ons, but I was sure she regularly used them to her advantage.
“You want a tip?” D’Alessio said. He grinned and leaned his head down so he could look at me over the tops of his glasses.
“I’m not giving you a hand job.”
“Meat’s back.”
I tried to look nonchalant. “Who?”
“Fuck you,” D’Alessio said. He leaned his head back but kept the grin in place. “You know—the guy whose wife you been banging.”
He meant Jason Esper, Darlene’s estranged husband. I had heard rumors that he might come back to Starvation after leaving Darlene and town many months before.
Those of us who played hockey called him Meat for how the knuckles on his right hand looked after dozens of fights in the lowest of the low minor leagues. Like pounded meat. Darlene had told me that Jason went through periods when it was too painful for him to put his hand in his pocket. He also happened to be about as big and muscled as a steer.
“Aha,” I said. “Well, welcome back, Meat. Why’s he back? Did someone beat his video golf record at Dingman’s?”
“I hear he’s fixed himself up pretty good,” D’Alessio said. “But you can see for yourself tomorrow.”
Tuesday night, Soupy and I and our team, the Chowder Heads, had a first-round playoff game in the Midnight Hour Men’s League.
“No shit, huh?” I said. “Meat’s playing?”
“Yes, sir. Last time you saw him on the ice, he was skating for the Pipefitters, wasn’t he?”
The Pipefitters was the team from south of Detroit that beat us in overtime in the 1981 state final.
“Yeah,” I said. “But he was young, didn’t get a lot of ice time.”
“He’ll get plenty tomorrow, unfortunately for you.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Deputy!”
The shout came from the shoe tree. We both looked to see Dingus waving his arms over his head. He didn’t seem happy. D’Alessio, flustered, gave him a thumbs-up, then looked back at me.
“Move it along,” he said. “I’ll see you at the rink or”—he smirked again—“maybe in the hospital.”
I swung my truck around and headed back in the direction of town. As I turned north on Ladensack Road, I tried Soupy’s cell phone. As usual, he didn’t answer. Probably still in bed, I thought. I didn’t bother to leave a message he wouldn’t bother to retrieve.
* * *
The Starvation Lake Arena, in all of its cinder-block glory, squatted in a parking lot ringed
I took another look at the shoe tree. “You’re right,” I told Darlene.
“Gracie was no angel but—”
“I know. She didn’t deserve this. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
six
Cold whipped across my face as I rolled my window down. D’Alessio had hidden his eyes behind unnecessary sunglasses.
“Frankie,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Can’t be parking here.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of town. “Got to move it along.”
D’Alessio had come to Starvation from Detroit as a boy. His father had been a Detroit cop who got sick of the shot-up streets and falling-down houses, so he came up north and bought a grocery store in town. Frankie had a wife and a couple of kids. He skated in the Midnight Hour Men’s League. Not a lot of skill, but a knack for whacking the top of your skate with the heel of his stick when you weren’t looking, something I hadn’t had to endure when I was playing goalie.
He also carried a barely disguised hard-on for Channel Eight’s on-air reporter, Tawny Jane Reese.
“What do you think?” I said. “I hear you’ve got a suicide note.”
“Crazy little bitch,” he said, meaning, I assumed, Gracie. “No comment.”
“It’s not a suicide.”
“All communications with the press should be directed to the sheriff or the on-duty press liaison.”
I chuckled. “Tell me, Frankie. How do I get you to leak me stuff like this so-called suicide note? I hope Tawny at least gave you a hand job.”
I didn’t really think she’d ever given in to D’Alessio’s come-ons, but I was sure she regularly used them to her advantage.
“You want a tip?” D’Alessio said. He grinned and leaned his head down so he could look at me over the tops of his glasses.
“I’m not giving you a hand job.”
“Meat’s back.”
I tried to look nonchalant. “Who?”
“Fuck you,” D’Alessio said. He leaned his head back but kept the grin in place. “You know—the guy whose wife you been banging.”
He meant Jason Esper, Darlene’s estranged husband. I had heard rumors that he might come back to Starvation after leaving Darlene and town many months before.
Those of us who played hockey called him Meat for how the knuckles on his right hand looked after dozens of fights in the lowest of the low minor leagues. Like pounded meat. Darlene had told me that Jason went through periods when it was too painful for him to put his hand in his pocket. He also happened to be about as big and muscled as a steer.
“Aha,” I said. “Well, welcome back, Meat. Why’s he back? Did someone beat his video golf record at Dingman’s?”
“I hear he’s fixed himself up pretty good,” D’Alessio said. “But you can see for yourself tomorrow.”
Tuesday night, Soupy and I and our team, the Chowder Heads, had a first-round playoff game in the Midnight Hour Men’s League.
“No shit, huh?” I said. “Meat’s playing?”
“Yes, sir. Last time you saw him on the ice, he was skating for the Pipefitters, wasn’t he?”
The Pipefitters was the team from south of Detroit that beat us in overtime in the 1981 state final.
“Yeah,” I said. “But he was young, didn’t get a lot of ice time.”
“He’ll get plenty tomorrow, unfortunately for you.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Deputy!”
The shout came from the shoe tree. We both looked to see Dingus waving his arms over his head. He didn’t seem happy. D’Alessio, flustered, gave him a thumbs-up, then looked back at me.
“Move it along,” he said. “I’ll see you at the rink or”—he smirked again—“maybe in the hospital.”
I swung my truck around and headed back in the direction of town. As I turned north on Ladensack Road, I tried Soupy’s cell phone. As usual, he didn’t answer. Probably still in bed, I thought. I didn’t bother to leave a message he wouldn’t bother to retrieve.
* * *
The Starvation Lake Arena, in all of its cinder-block glory, squatted in a parking lot ringed
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