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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v113) (the December 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Falling (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 230 page Sept. - Dec. 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Revenge Has Two Faces

Larry January

    Opal Whatley’s stunned gaze lingered heavily on the bloody corpse. Papers flew from her clipboard as it clattered to the floor. The ashen body lay spread eagle across the bed, his eyes frozen on the ceiling fan. Clad only in urine stained once white jockey shorts, the tattoo, “Born To Raise Hell,” adorned his chest. The buzz of green bottle flies broke the silence as they circled above the gaping head wounds. An odor like a ripe portable toilet filled the cramped room. The frightened property manager’s stomach rolled. With her hand clamped over her lips, saliva pooled in her mouth. Worried the killer might still be there, she inched backwards, spun around, and dashed for the front door.

    Two days earlier, Rosie Parisi opened the side door of her cluttered garage to take in the cool afternoon breeze, cleaned her circular glasses, and pulled a Chargers’ cap over her shoulder length red hair. As the treadmill gained speed under her feet, she adjusted the turquoise headphones for her iPod and cranked up the volume.
    The creases in her face grew with each painful step. Tears stung her eyes as she turned off the iPod and stopped the treadmill. Her marriage to Joe had always been explosive, but this time something snapped inside her. She feared he would carry out his death threats if she left him. Only one choice remained. Her mind raced as she shuffled to the kitchen to ice her muted purple ribs and blotchy stomach.
    A lively tune broke the silence as Rosie’s cell phone flashed a welcome number. She laid the ice pack aside and answered the phone, “Hi dear, It’s good to hear from you.”
    “Hi, Mom. I’ve got good news and bad news. I accepted a job teaching sixth grade at a school for military kids,” Sarah paused, then hurried on, “I’ll leave for Germany the day after graduation. My ride just pulled up. I’ll call you later. Love you.”
     “I love you too,” Rosie said into the phone, aware she was speaking to dead air. Rosie’s eyes turned glassy. How she missed her children. The house felt so empty without them, but she wouldn’t wish them back for anything. She often thought Michael was safer on a carrier in the Red Sea than around Joe.
    At breakfast, Joe finished his eggs, stared at Rosie and said, “Are your parents still gonna stay here tonight?”
    Her left fist clenched below the table as she nodded her head.
    “They better be gone when I get home tomorrow afternoon,” he said as he grabbed his tackle box and left for his in-laws’ beach rental.
    Joe always had a mean streak. In high school, he played first-string varsity football for three years, out only one game. For assault, of course. His senior year he bullied a kid in the bathroom and demanded money. When the kid balked, Joe surprised him with a thunderous right cross, crushing his upper front teeth. Joe hadn’t improved in all the time they’d been married. If anything, year after year he had become worse
    Rosie’s parents arrived that afternoon. They didn’t like Joe, but had no clue how bad things really were. She and the kids didn’t discuss it among themselves, and certainly not with anyone else.
    Arched over the kitchen sink, rubber gloves up to her elbows, Rosie anxiously shifted her weight back and forth as her parents ate the last of their dinner. Everything was in place. This was not the time for doubts. Her mother’s voice broke her train of thought. “Rosie, you made dinner, let me do the dishes.”
    “That’s okay, I’ll do them. It’s not often I get to have you over,” Rosie said, with a forced smile.
     “I worry about you,” her mother said. “How much do you weigh, 110 pounds, 115? How could you weigh 190 two years ago and now be so thin? Up and down, up and down, that’s not good.”
    “Mom, everything’s fine. I’m a lot healthier than I look,” she assured her.
    Later, they told family stories with her dad stealing the show. Rosie asked him,” Why did you wait two days to explain how you broke the cooktop?”
    He paused and said, “I didn’t want to interrupt your mother.”
    Aware of what lay ahead, Rosie tried to stretch the conversation. Their half-shut eyes and nodding heads argued against it. After cocoa, she hugged them longer than usual.
    Unable to find his toothbrush, her father said, “I’m enjoying this, but bedtime’s much easier at home,”
    “Meds are ready,” said Rosie as she dispensed a handful of multicolored pills in assorted shapes and sizes. There was just enough confusion that neither parent noticed the additional pill.
    “Where do you want me?” her dad asked.
    “You’re in Michael’s room, and Mom’s in Sarah’s,” answered Rosie.
    “Good,” her mom said. “His snoring drives me crazy.”
    Once in her bedroom, Rosie kept an eye on the large red numerals of the clock as they advanced at a glacial pace. Finally, it flashed 12:45 a.m. She put on her Timex, black hoody, faded Levi’s, grass stained Nikes, and eased the SUV from the garage.
    The house Rosie lived in until she was twenty-one was now one of her parents’ rentals. Its’ location just two blocks from the beach was great, but that was offset by the heavily used railroad junction. The trains rattled the foundation and made a deafening sound as the cars roared passed. Three weeks ago the renters split in the dead of night. They had lasted longer than most. Even those desperate enough to handle the sleep deprived nights were frightened away by the area’s gang activity and vandalism.
    With her parents’ beach rental in sight, Rosie slowed to a crawl and found a spot shadowed by a large palm tree. She closed the car door softly, and pulled on a pair of beige latex gloves. Taking a deep breath, she directed her thoughts to the task at hand. She crept with catlike stealth to her old bedroom window, pried the pitted aluminum frame from the track, and leaned it against the wall. Slowly, she wormed her way inside.
    It was 1:42 a.m, almost time for the train. She coaxed the bedroom door open. A high pitched squeak from the bottom hinge stiffened the hair on her neck. Goose bumps on her arms looked like the skin of a plucked chicken. Her eyes had adjusted while waiting. She could see the stains on the hallway carpet. She remembered all the times Joe’s open left hand rocked her head forward, his closed right fist left her dazed on the floor. Her free hand pressed against her bruised ribs, and her resolve came back stronger than ever.
    The train whistle echoed in the distance. She tiptoed across the hall and pushed open the door to the second bedroom where Joe slept. With a shaky hand she flipped on the light and rushed toward the bed. “Joe, Joe, it’s Rosie, get up, get up. Mom’s had a heart attack!”
    Joe, startled and disoriented, flailed his arms and legs until he was awake enough to swing his legs off the bed. He was standing upright when the train roared by. She looked him squarely in the eyes, raised the concealed gun, and fired two rapid shots point blank to the head.
    In slow motion, Rosie watched as Joe’s lifeless body fell backwards, arms flung wide. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All those years of abuse now lay across a bloodstained bed.
    She used her sleeve to wipe the blood splattered on her face, and began a methodical search, stripping his wallet of cash and credit cards. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, pain sliced through her torso with each beat. She knew she had to remove his watch and the gold chain he always wore. The watch was easy. Her head throbbed when she reached for the blood drenched chain. Eyes partially closed, she grabbed it, yanked, and almost fell when the chain broke. With only minutes to spare, she tossed the living room, kitchen and bathroom, saving her old room for last, then crawled out the open window.
    Traffic was spotty going home. Her street in sight, she doused the lights and dropped her speed. Dimly lit solar lights cast a faint path to safety. She nudged the sun beaten red Bronco into the darkened driveway. The garage door motor hummed as it broke the early morning calm. In an effort to avoid a noisy repeat, she carefully lowered the door by hand.
    In her bedroom, Rosie hurried to stash her clothes. After a quick shower, she slipped into a flannel nightgown. She inched her way to the nightstand in her mother’s room, and changed the clock to 1:55 a.m. She nudged her mom’s shoulder until their eyes met, told her she was talking in her sleep, and escorted her to the bathroom.
    Getting back in bed, her mother said, “It’s 2:00 o’clock. I always have to go at two.”
    In a few minutes she returned to her mother’s door, heard a slight whistle with each exhale, and edged into the room. She adjusted the clock to the correct time, 3:30 a.m.

    By noon the panic stricken property manager had called 911 to report the homicide. Detective Russo, one of several initial responders, volunteered to be the lead detective. He was given the case, even though it meant he would have to work solo until his partner returned from vacation. He punched Joe’s address into his GPS and left the crime scene to notify the widow.
    With one last glance at his neatly cropped moustache, Russo stepped from the unmarked car. Dressed in a stylish tan suit, he wiped the dust from his shiny brown loafers. His trim, lean shadow accompanied him up the walkway.
    Eyes directed at the peephole, he removed his sunglasses and pressed the bell. When Rosie opened the door, he displayed his badge. His voice dropped, “Hello, I’m detective Russo, with the San Diego Police Department, may I speak with Mrs. Parisi?”
    “I’m Rosie Parisi,” she answered.
    “I’m sorry, but I have some bad news,” he said. “May I come in?”
     Without saying a word, she opened the door. Her parents were in the living room and heard the exchange. Her mother went straight to Russo as he stepped inside, “What happened?” she demanded.
     “Please be seated and I’ll explain everything,” he said.
    Rosie and her parents huddled together on the worn leather sofa. To be closer, Russo pulled the lightweight maple rocker across the threadbare carpet. Bent forward in the chair, he said in a monotone, “I regret to inform you that Mr. Parisi died early today from gunshot wounds.”
    Rosie’s mother and father were worried and frightened. They grilled Russo relentlessly. After thirty tense minutes he brought the session to an abrupt end. He handed Rosie his card, said he’d talk with her again soon, and left the house.
    Russo climbed in the car, clicked his seatbelt, and gazed out the windshield. When he arrived Rosie should have been the one to ask what he wanted. Her parents had pried him for details, but she only asked a few minor questions. She maintained a sad expression, but didn’t cry. She made eye contact, but didn’t sustain it. When her mother hugged her, Rosie winced, possibly from some type of injury. She wore a watch and costume jewelry on her right hand, but no ring on her left. He unbuckled the seatbelt, reached for his notepad, and swung the door open.
    Russo thanked Mrs. Allen, a neighbor, for her cooperation with the routine questions. As he turned to leave she said, “By the way, if you’re going next door to the Waters’ house, they’re on vacation.”
    “Do you have any idea when they’ll be back?” he asked.
    Mrs. Allen replied, “I’m not sure, but Rosie will know. She’s taking care of their cat.”
    Russo got up early and did paperwork before his impromptu visit. As he passed the Waters’ residence, he noticed Rosie. She leaned back, arms fully extended, and pulled the overloaded trash container to the curb. When their eyes met, Rosie’s jaw dropped. In the rear view mirror he watched her shake her head from side to side. He pulled into her driveway and waited by the car.
    As the interview with Rosie concluded, Russo had a hunch he couldn’t put to rest. He moved his car around the corner, grabbed some disposable gloves, and walked slowly back to the Waters’ house. The trash container was wheeled behind their six foot dog eared fence, completely hidden from view. His lips puckered from the stench of urine soaked sand and week old cat dung. In a large black bag, along with the soggy kitchen waste, he found a capped two-gallon plastic litter tub. As he dumped the contents into a bucket, a revolver slid out. Shiny grooves took the space once held by a serial number. Eyes riveted on the gun, he imagined Joe in his sights, confused and shaken. Two rounds hit dead center in the big man’s forehead.
    His thoughts were interrupted as the knocks and pings from the street grew louder. He hurriedly poured the clumped sand over the gun, pressed hard on the lid with the heal of his hand, and snapped it in place. The container reached the curb just seconds before the diesel came to a stop. The arms of the steel giant hoisted its’ prize, and devoured the contents.
    “Welcome back,” Russo said as he entered detective Nelson’s office.

    “We had a great trip,” Nelson replied. “I’ll tell you about it later. There’s a meeting with the lieutenant in ten minutes. Can you brief me on the Parisi case?”
    Russo took a sip of coffee, then began, “His family members have solid alibis. There were no financial incentives from his death. No one saw anything. Forensics came up empty. He was only there for the weekend. A couple of weeks ago he trashed two gang bangers eyeing his truck. It looks like a robbery that went south, or possibly a gang-related hit.”
    “Thanks for the update” Nelson said. “By the way, after work are you ready for a butt kicking?” he joked as Russo was fiercely competitive and usually won.
    “No racquetball today. I’ve got a dental appointment,” replied Russo.
    “What’s wrong?” Nelson asked.
    Pointing to four of his top front teeth, he said, “I got these knocked out a long time ago. I’ve been wearing a bridge all these years. Now I’m getting implants.”
    “Was it from sports?” Nelson asked.
    “No, I got sucker punched back in high school.” He paused a moment before adding, “A real asshole.”

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