Locomotive to the Past by George Schultz (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“What do you know, Asshole?” seethed Mahoney. “What do you know . . . about anything?”

“Well, I’ve got a daughter! Two of ’em. actually! But, one of ’em is almost-exactly Donna’s age! Surprised are you… ya son of a bitch… that I know your daughter’s name? Do you know your daughter’s… your own daughter’s . . . name? Do you?”

“Of course I do! Listen! This is,” snorted Mahoney, “this is fucking outrageous!”

“Yeah?” responded the plainclothes man! His complexion was reddening—steadily! And rapidly! “We’ll see what’s fucking outrageous . . . when the public finds out, that this darling little girl has to take care, of your little boy! Has had to take care, the little guy! For God-knows-how-long!”

“Your autistic little boy,” added Schwartz—the uniformed one!

“Right!’ agreed Phipps. “Your autistic little boy! Donna couldn’t be much more… can’t be much more… than seven, or eight!”

“And,” snarled Schwartz, “that means that the little, autistic, kid was only a goddam infant! An infant, when that unbelievable little girl… when she had to assume responsibility, for his care! She’s still almost an infant, herself!”

“And now,” resumed Phipps, “those kids are in Child Protection! Both of ’em! At CPS! While their mother’s in jail! Charged with fucking murder!”

“And,” ranted the one in uniform, “while their no-good bastard, of a father . . . so called… lives it up, in his beautiful home, in Dearborn Heights!”

“Complete with hot-and-cold running whores,” furnished Phipps. “Do you know why Ella shot that son of a bitch? Or even who it was . . . that she emptied that gun in to?”

“Emptied your gun into,” expanded Schwartz. “Do you know who the dead guy was?”

“Or,” rejoined Phipps, “why his ass wound up, past tense? Do you have even the remotest inkling… as to why? Or… like everything else . . . could it be, that you just don’t give a shit? Could care less?”

For one of the few times, in his life—quite possibly, the only time, in his life—Lead Prosecutor, Buck Mahoney merely sat! Staring at his two outraged inquisitors! Sat! In stony silence! He attempted to speak! But, nothing came! This wielder-of-power was singularly overwhelmed! Rendered speechless, by the frightening—the “impossible”—scenario! The deadly-to-his-career implications! The unthinkable situation—that was unfolding, before his unbelieving eyes!

“Did you hear me, Asshole?” It was Lt. Phipps—taking fearful note, of the unmistakable fact that his host’s eyes were fast glazing over! “Did you hear me?” he repeated. “Do you know why your wife… your poor, haggard, wife… was out there? Out at Manny Foster’s crappy, foul-smelling, piece-of-shit, apartment? Do you know why? Because the bastard had offered her a job! Only… schmuck that he was… all he really wanted, was to screw her! Her own words! ‘I let him screw me’!”

“Your wife’s word, Buck! Her own! Her own… exact . . . word,” furnished Schwartz. “It was ‘screw’! Ask the lieutenant! That’s exactly what she said! Word for fucking word! She said, ‘I let him screw me’!”

“And then . . . after she’d submitted . . . he threw her out,” muttered Phipps. “Then, do you know what he did? I’ll tell you what he did! Tell you… in Ella’s own words: ‘He threw my panties at me! Threw them… right in my face!’ That’s what she said! That was too much! Way too much, for her! She’d just been used! Really used! Badly used! And then, having her own underpants… thrown in her face! That was far too much! She went home… and got the gun, Mahoney! Your gun! She got your gun! And she came back! And then, she emptied the gun! Emptied it… into that slime-bucket son of a bitch! All six bullets!”

“Gentlemen . . . look!” Mahoney’s attitude had undergone a massive sea change! “I assure you! I’d never . . . hadn’t ever . . .”

“Save your bad breath, Mahoney,” hissed Phipps!

“Yeah,” agreed Schwartz. “You had to have known that that restaurant had closed! Everyone in Dearborn fucking knew it! And what did you do? You sat . . . on your smug, don’t-give-a-shit, ass! That’s what you did! Could care less . . . about Ella! Could care less… about your kids! About that helpless little boy! And that darling . . . that positively-heroic . . . little girl! You’re the scum . . . the scum, of the fuckin’ earth . . . Buck-baby! I’d like nothing better . . . than to take down your unprincipled ass! Take it right down! And that goes for every man… and every woman . . . in the whole goddam department! Every damn one of us! There are some women . . . who could say a lot . . . about how you’ve treated them! How you’ve taken advantage of ’em… over the years! How you’ve made ’em… made some of ’em… put out! A lot of ’em! Made a lot of ’em… put out! How many had to come across, for you, over the years? How many, Mahoney?”

“Look, Phipps,” Mahoney began—his voice lacking any hint of oomph!

“Oh, listen Mahoney,” hissed the detective. “That’s only the beginning!” He trotted out his best carnival barker’s voice! “Only the beginning, folks!”

“Gentlemen!” Their host’s voice was, by then, a mere—almost inaudible—rasp. “I don’t know what I can do! What can be done!”

“Well,” sneered Phipps, “you’d better think of something!”

“And fucking quick,” augmented Schwartz. “Awfully fucking quick!”

“You’ve got two days… Mister Glorious Fucking Prosecutor!” Purple veins were popping out—all over Phipps’ neck! “Do you dig? Forty-eight fucking hours! I don’t care how you do it! It just better get fucking done! Or all hell’s gonna break loose! If you don’t believe me… if you don’t believe us . . . just let Ella Mahoney’s poor, unfortunate, harried, butt; let it still be in jail! Be in jail . . . forty-eight hours from now!

“Yeah,” seethed Schwartz. “And just let those two kids . . . still be in CPS!”

At about the time that the “conversation”—in Buck Mahoney’s office—had wound up, the phone, in the home of Debbie Hendricks, was ringing.

“Hello?”

“Debbie! You gotta help me!”

“Good-bye Sheila!”

“No! Wait! Debbie,” she sobbed, “I’m being… gonna be… They’re evicting me! Please! You gotta help me! I… I don’t have anybody! Nobody . . . to turn to! Not one soul! I’ve only got, till Monday! Four goddam days! To come up… come up, with five-hundred goddam