Cemetery Street - John Zunski (good novels to read in english .txt) 📗

loved to do it myself.” Diane took another sip. “James promise me that you will never talk about this with Shannie.” She stared at me, crow’s feet punctuated the corner of her eyes.
“Promise,” I said.
“You also have to promise that you will stop asking around town about what happened.”
“I’ve only asked Russell.”
“Please don’t ask anyone anything. Promise?”
“But I…”
“James. Promise!” It was an order.
“Promise,” I answered.
“I’ve heard that you’ve had some trouble in school with Michael Manson and his cadres. I don’t think it’s a coincidence since you live in Manson’s Uncle’s old house.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re a friend of Shannie and Leroy,” Diane said.
“So? I had trouble with them. I stumbled in where I wasn’t supposed to be.”
Diane sat her cup down and gazed at me over her glasses. “Do you really believe that?”
“I guess,” I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I mumbled as her icy eyes melted my resolve.
“Michael Manson used to be a friend. Michael had a lot of problems with his father and used to stay with his uncle. Michael’s uncle was an evil man. He used Michael to lure Shannie into his house. He molested her.” Diane said after drawing a deep breath, “If Michael can be believed, he forced Michael to molest her.”
I was shocked into silence.
“Shannie didn’t tell me immediately. She was ashamed. Eventually she told Russell who was afraid to tell me or go to the police.”
“Why would he be afraid?”
“That’s another story. Russell was afraid I would have him arrested. So he called the only person he knew he could trust: Mr. Lightman. That night Mr. Lightman came over and told me what happened and together we decided what to do.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Sort of. Mr. Lightman has a friend who’s a cop. He told him what happened and said he would like to take matters into his own hands. Mr. Lightman, Leroy Jr., and the unnamed officer paid a visit to Manson’s house the next night and persuaded him to leave Pennsylvania or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Use your imagination.”

“Hello,” Counts tired voice answered the phone.
“I know what happened to Shannie in Manson’s house.”
“Oh good for you,” he droned.
“Inquiring minds want to know, how did you persuade Manson to leave?”
“Listen dip shit, I’ve just got to sleep an hour ago, I’ve been plowing while you’ve been playing Sherlock Holmes. If you don’t hang up and let me get back to sleep, I’m going to persuade you to leave town.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“Up yours,” Count snapped.
Three years later, before leaving for basic training, Count told me what happened. We were standing in the base of the giant maple tree drinking beers and watching traffic on the Expressway. The late summer sun was losing its grip, afternoon shadows faded to evening dusk. “I have something to tell you,” he said as he finished a beer and sent the bottle in a towering arc into the junkyard. As the bottle shattered among the rusting carcasses, old Duke erupted in a chorus of angry barks.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We damn near killed him.”
“Killed who?” The subject had long stopped being an obsession of mine.
“Manson, you knucklehead.”
I handed him another beer.
A look of sadness overtook him as he looked into the sun streaked sky. Count told his story: “Russell had come to my old man with a matter of extreme importance. He made small talk with my folks a bit before my old man asked him what was so important.”
“Well sir. If you would beg my pardon, I’d prefer not to talk about this, this situation, around the child.’”
“Fair enough,’ the old man says. ‘Boy, you’re excused.”
“But,’ I protested.”
“No buts boy, we have to talk business. You’re excused - skedaddle!’”
“I stormed off to my bedroom. I tried listening; what could be so important? ‘Boy, Shut your door.’ the old man yelled. With my ear against the bedroom door I struggled to make out Russell’s nervous jabber. I did hear him mention Shannie; I heard him mention Manson. When I heard the old man mention the police, I opened my door.”
“Sir, we’s can’t call the police,’ Russell said.”
“Why the hell not?’ the old man roared.”
"Seeing that this here is a white town and I’m a blind black man, peoples be calling for my lynching.”
“That’s nonsense, you didn’t do anything.’”
“That don’t matter. I’d be automatically guilty. Like I said I’m a black man and she’s a little white girl. Begging your pardon, I don’t want to repeat history.’”
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do?’”
“I don’t know,’ Russell answered. ‘That’s why I came to you. You’re the only people I can trust.’”
“BOY! SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED DOOR. TURN UP YOUR GODDAMNED STEREO!’”
“Later I watched Russell and the old man cross the cemetery towards Shannie’s.”
“The next day the old man came into my room. ‘It’s about time you learn how the world works.’ The old man was agitated. ‘That Cretan Manson had his way with Shannie. We agree we ain’t telling the cops.’ He ran his hand over his head, ‘It’s all the better, if the paper finds out, it won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Shannie was …. Well, then the poor little girl will have to deal with a ton of bullshit. You see Son, it’s time to take matters into our own hands.’”
“What are we going to do?’ I asked.”
“We’re going to persuade that bastard to never set foot in town again.’”
“We ought to kill the bastard.’”
“We oughta,’ the old man said. ‘But then, we’d be the criminals.’”
“Listen to me. I’m going to talk to a friend about this. If everything goes right, tomorrow night Manson gets a lesson he’ll never forget. I don’t want you going nowhere. Hang around the house. You understand?’”
“Yeah,’ I told the old man.”
“Good,’ he patted my back. ‘It’s your duty to help someone when they can’t help themselves. Listen to me boy, and you’ll make me proud.’”
“James, I understood what was going to happen. That night, a friend of the old man, who happens to be one of Beyford’s finest, paid us a visit. In the kitchen, the old man and his friend, I’ll call him Mr. Smith, told me to sit down.”
“Mrs. Ortolan took Shannie out of town for a few days. By the time they come home, that bastard will be gone. The way I figure it, tomorrow night the three of us will pay Manson a visit. I don’t know if he locks his doors our keeps a gun in the house. That’s were you come in,’ he said to Smith.”
“I know a way in,’ I spoke up.” The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘I can get in without ever being found out,’ I said.”
Count interrupted his story, “James, you know what I’m talking about don’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah. Under the front porch, lift the lattice, slide under the porch, slide the plywood from the window and you’re in the room with the oil tank. From there, it’s into the basement.”
“Very good James,” he said before returning to his story.
“If we can get to him while he’s on the first floor we won’t have to worry about a gun. I doubt if he carries in his own house. It’s where he feels safest. He’ll be unsuspecting. But, if he is, we get our asses out of there. How well do you know his house Junior?’”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“Good. If he locks his door, we won’t have to jimmy the lock. Junior sneaks in and opens it from the inside. One other thing,’ Mr. Smith said as he reached into his wallet. He produced tickets for the next night’s Flyer’s game. “If he should sing, it’s his word against ours. As far as anybody is concerned, we are at a hockey game. Junior, tomorrow in school, let it be known that you have tickets for the game. Understand?’”
“I nodded.”
“The next night couldn’t come quick enough. I labored through school bragging I was going to the Flyer’s game. That night, I sat in my room staring at Manson’s house. At eight o’clock Mr. Smith showed up. Ten minutes later we walked across the graveyard. The lights on the first floor were on. We snuck across the yard. Manson was sitting in the living room watching television. We climbed the back steps. The outside door was open. We crept into the mudroom behind the kitchen. There was another door. I looked to the old man before trying the doorknob. He shook his head and I tired the door. It was locked. I remember being scared shitless. I had to climb under the front porch and make my way up the basement stairs and into to kitchen without being heard. Success was up to me, I was the only one who could fit through the old window under the porch.”
Count had given away the identity of ‘Mr. Smith.’
Count continued: “What’s it, like fifteen, twenty feet from the basement door to the mudroom? The idea of being in the house with Manson scared the fuck out of me. As I made my way out of the mudroom the old man patted me on the back and Mr. Smith gave me the thumbs up.”
“I made my way around the side of the house. I lifted the lattice and crawled under the porch. Once I was settled under the porch I slid the plywood from old window and climbed into the basement. If I made a sound, Manson would hear. I couldn’t be more than a couple feet below him. I reached for the drawstring and turned on the light. As I snuck across the basement I heard rats. I almost shit my pants. It felt unreal.”
“I took my time climbing the steps. When I reached the top I was face to face with the kitchen door. I placed my ear against the door. I only heard the television. I turned the knob, the latch disengaged. I was about to open the door when I heard the floor creak. Manson heard me, I thought. I fought the impulse to open the door and make a quick dash. Manson walked past the other side of door into the kitchen. The refrigerator door closed. He walked past me. When I thought he sat back down I started counting to one hundred. When I reached fifty, I opened the door.”
“I stepped into the kitchen and crept to the door. I unlocked the deadbolt. What a relief it was to see my old man and Mr. Smith. They stormed by me. When I got to the living room Manson was already bleeding. The old man and Mr. Smith drug Manson down into the basement. When Manson tired to yell, the old man stuck a glove in his mouth and smacked him across the head. Towards the bottom the old man dropped Manson letting his head walk the steps. James, I’ll never forget the look on Manson’s face. He was terrified. The old man motioned for me to grab Manson’s arm. I had a hold of his right arm and Mr. Smith his left when the old man pounded Manson’s gut. Manson’s knees gave way. Mr. Smith and I held him up.”
“Listen and listen good,’ the old man said ‘You have forty-eight hours to get the fuck out of town and forget that you ever lived here. If you don’t, I promise you, this will seem like a house warming.’ To drive home his point he busted open Manson’s mouth with an upper cut. ‘I’ll dig a hole and plant you!’”
“W- w- hat are you t tal