One Bad Deed

By David Toman

Living in modern-day California, Will Tomsey is a rehabilitated New York City criminal making a fresh start in San Diego. A coked-up motorcycle mechanic kills his only son, Jack Kennedy Tomsey. The justice system fails a tormented Will, and he reverts to his former habits and friends.

Along the way, things go painfully wrong, and Will critically injures a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang. The gang, Los Nino Del Diablo (Children of the Devil), is profiting from a relationship with the Tijuana cartel, involving drug and immigrant smuggling. The same determined detective, Homicides Lieutenant Hicks, who solved the death of Wills son, is in a race with the motorcycle gang in the hunt for Will.

Along the way, Will finds out the answer to one of lifes most important questions, which guides him on his journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543481105

David Toman

Born in New York, Dave has spent his adult life living in San Diego with his wife, children and his dear friend, Katy, a golden retriever. Dave earned a Masters degree in Mathematics, a minor in Sociology and he has an interest in everything. One Bad Deed is Daves first novel. He has had several opinion articles and technical papers published. Dave mentioned that Anthony, a.k.a. Chazbo, a New York City mobster, homicide detective Hicks, and Uno, an outlaw motorcycle gang leader, all characters One Bad Deed are clamoring for a sequel. Dave doesnt want to disappoint them.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

M Y EYES FLUTTERED open to banging on the car. A gun’s shadowy eye, held by a quivering hand, stared at me through the passenger’s window. An empty dime bag and an empty flask were scattered on the floor.

Everything came into focus when Barrett shouted, Wake up, asshole, wake up! There’s an elephant standing on my chest. Get me help, or I’ll kill you.

I climbed into the driver’s seat. Barrett pressed his palm on his chest, moaned, and flopped into the passenger’s side.

His face hardened into a pleading concentration. I’m sorry I hurt your boy. Call 911. Help me, Tomsey. Please. He said help me again but fat-tongued it into scalp me.

How come there’s never an Apache around when you need one?

He looked at me with droopy eyes on his chin’s journey to his chest. I peeled his clammy fingers off the gun and fought the urge to find out if his head was as hollow as a coconut. What happened to the ‘I’ll kill you’ thingy? Changed your mind, psycho?

Speaking with each exhale, he said, I’m … sorry … Lilly.

I put my hands vise-like on the sides of my face. My head was killing me, but it would have hurt worse if I hadn’t smoked a settle your ass down joint on the way to Barrett’s house.

Barrett was breathing like Darth Vader when we pulled into his driveway, only louder and without the rhythm. And Mr. Vader was a nicer person. I resisted the urge to giggle at my joke. In a nod to professionalism, I talked myself out of stopping for Doritos and a Dr Pepper. Murder is much better when you’re a little baked.

I shook him and said, Listen! Listen! I’m Jack Kennedy Tomsey’s father, and I just bought you a ticket to hell. Did you enjoy the poisoned coke the Easter Bunny put into your basket?

Barrett’s eyes popped open in surprised recognition. He lunged at me, just like in the movies when the dead guy reaches out of the grave and grabs an ankle. Whether I was half-stoned or not, this time my army training kicked in.

I slapped his arms away and drove the palm of my hand into the place where his nose ended and his forehead began. The back of his head slammed into the side window. A rivulet of blood snaked down the cracked glass.

He slid into a heap, squashed between the passenger’s seat and the floor, an evil puppet with its strings cut. An animal like groan followed faint, short bursts of breath. My heart beat so hard I thought it might come through my chest, but I felt a Dexter-like joy. Is my inner sociopath trying to get out?

Execute the plan. Look around. No traffic. You have time. Slow, deep breaths. Put the gloves on. Dump the body.

I lifted and pushed until Barrett leaned against the passenger’s door. Damn, dead weight is heavy. Take the baby aspirin bottle from the backpack. Put a pill in his mouth.

Getting his yap open was harder than I thought it would be. His grill reminded me of a pumpkin, and I was able to push an aspirin through one of the spaces. Take a few for my headache. Wipe the bottle. Jam it into his pocket.

Use the vacuum hidden under the seat to remove evidence from Barrett. Can’t turn the bag of shit over. Go around the car. Pull him out and clean the ass side.

My hand slipped off the handle when I tried to open his door from the outside. Damn it, locked. I raced back to the driver’s side, banged my shin on the bumper, and yelled son of a bitch a little too loudly. A second later, the gods of Toyota clicked the driver’s door locked. Shit, the doors are locked. Keys are inside with fuck-nut. Why do Japanese cars hate me?

I paced back and forth, rubbing my neck. What to do? Think. Think. Wish I had a slim jim. Mmmmm. No, dipshit, the kind you break into cars with. Barrett must have something in his garage.

Yippee, the house is unlocked. Yippee? No more ganja for me. There was a crowbar leaning on the corner of his garage. Bust open the trunk. Who cares if the Camry gets dented? Force it through the back seat.

The gods of Toyota were still fucking with me when I scratched myself on a seat spring. Blood. But I’m in. Slow down. Relax. This whole bullshit evening will make a great deathbed story. Hopefully, I won’t be strapped to a bed in Sing Sing.

You’ve got time. Don’t rush. I reached across the slumping manikin, resisted playing the I’ve got your nose game, and popped the lock. His door creaked loud enough to wake the dead. But not taint-face.

Barrett hung in a twisted pretzel shape, his legs stuck under the dash. With one last pull, the rest of the snake slithered out of the car. His head hit the driveway and made a clunking sound, like a bowling ball return. Owie. It is as hollow as a coconut.

Wipe my blood off the gun’s handle, stuff it into Barrett’s waistline. Fish the money out of his pocket. You did a bad job on the Camry. I’d appreciate a refund.

Damn it, should have taken out the dome light. It said in the detective’s kill book, even the best murderer gets caught if he makes too many mistakes.

Holy shit! A motorcycle is getting closer. No time to vacuum Barrett’s good side. The engine started after cranking for a few tense moments.

I threw the car into reverse, squeezed the steering wheel, and floored the gas. One last glance at Barrett. Son of a bitch, Darth is sitting up.

CHAPTER 2

M Y NAME IS Will Tomsey, and forty-four years ago, I started life in Brooklyn’s projects. The neighborhood was a bastard breeder and could have been the set of any movie featuring gangsters, drug dealers, and hookers. All screwing poor people.

No way I’d raise a family there. Too dangerous. Too crappy. Travel posters of clean, sunny places with blue oceans may as well have been an artist’s rendering of a distant planet. Beautiful people doing beautiful things.

After an atonement tour in the army, I climbed into a poster to live the life. Was my escape to San Diego as simple as enjoying the never-ending supply of sunny days and white sandy beaches, or as complex as living out my destiny? It doesn’t matter now. I married, had a son, and tickled fate when I named him Jack Kennedy Tomsey. Fate paid me back with a gut punch.

Everything was taken in an instant. The booby prize? The answer to one of creation’s most important questions. The French say, Un mal pour un bien (out of bad comes good). But finding out wasn’t worth the price. I would have found out anyway, at the end. My end. Just as I’d like to make that bastard find out.

CHAPTER 3

A LABOR DAY outing at the beach was the last day I was someone else, and Barrett was just another name. The seagulls, making their ha ha ha noise, patrolled the sky above San Diego’s Mission Bay, hoping to scoop up one last snack before they called it a day. Twilight and a contented exhaustion told me that this time with my family, like all good things, had come to an end. The day should have been a happy memory.

Jack, my seventeen-year-old son, and I climbed aboard the small cabin cruiser we’d muscled from the sandy shore into the cool water of Mission Bay. Katy, the family’s ever-smiling, tail-wagging golden retriever, jumped into the boat while it was still beached and supervised the launch.

Jack’s mother, Chienne, acknowledged our goodbye with an upward flick of her head. The motor cleared its smoky throat and purred, churning up a small bubbling wake. We started our trek to put the boat to bed in its slip on Harbor Island.

The bay was calm, even with the occasional gust of warm Santa Ana wind. As we putt-putted along, the lingering dusk gave way when the sun took its warming light to another place. Darkness switched on a necklace of hotel lights and flickering orange campfires scattered along the shore. I piloted the boat; Jack and Katy sat on the bow.

Katy and I kept a watchful eye on Jack as he took off his blue shoes—shoes only a teenager would wear—and dangled his feet over the side. I cleaned my glasses, making the huuuuh sound, but did it too hard and coughed. Jack belly laughed, just like when he was little. I felt as if I’d won a prize when I made him do that.

The boat cleared the tranquil bay, and the engine gained strength as we entered the dark, choppy channel to the Pacific. The hollow yielding sound from waves slapping against the bow reminded me that sometimes the things we think are well-built and lasting are, in reality, fragile and short-lived.

I said, I’m glad we got to spend time together. I wanted to talk to you about something.

Uh-oh, what did Mom tell you I did?

Nothing like that. You’re two weeks into your senior year. Can we—

"Ah, Pop. We’re not gonna talk about the C word again, are we?"

Cunt? No, but we need to decide on a college."

Huh? Speaking of college, last weekend Christy and I went to ‘The Living Dead’ concert at San Diego State. The statue of the Aztec mascot has a nose bump like yours. Tell me the story again.

Nice try. So is it college, or are you going to wear a name tag for the rest of your life? I left high school before I graduated and had to work my ass off in evening college while I supported you and your mom. I’ll shorten the nose bump story. I got punched in the face.

Army guys and cops have name tags. You putting them down? I already knew about the punch part. Tell me why again.

Because I didn’t want to go to college.

Ay, caramba!

No, there aren’t any crumbs on the boat. Even though the chica caliente (hot girl) sitting next to me in Spanish class invented poquito (mini) skirts, I learned enough to get by in the language.

"Haw haw, my father made a funny. I can’t go to college. I don’t know what I want to do with my life. And I’ve been in school for twelve years, that’s enough. I need adventure, not more books."

Join the crowd. In college, you find out about all sorts of things you’ve never heard of. Five hundred years before Christ, Socrates said, ‘If you want to make the gods laugh, tell them your plans.’ But my favorite is ‘By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll be happy. If you get a bad wife, you’ll be a philosopher.’

Is that why you’re a philosopher? Just kidding. And don’t tell Mom.

I said, Hey, we need to take care of your mother. She tries her best. I thought, I made a forever life choice before I understood the consequences. I used my heart, not my head. But having Jack makes the disappointment, dishonesty, and loneliness worth it.

I think leaving Christy is the reason you don’t want to go to college. Trust me, it’s a mistake to plan the rest of your life around your first love. Besides, you don’t have to move. There’re lots of good schools in San Diego. Don’t go. I’d be so lonely without you. I don’t know what to do with myself when you spend the night at a friend’s house.

Jeez, Pop. Okay, okay, I’ll apply at State.

The conversation with Jack brought back memories of my teenage years. My parents were hardworking immigrants from Czechoslovakia who declined the Nazi’s party invitation. My mother and father were placed in the only housing in Brooklyn they could afford. Both worked multiple jobs. I wish I’d known them better and not been such a dick.

My sister, Donna, and I grew up without parental guidance, raised feral. I had no moral framework, skipped school, and got in trouble with the law. Back then, college wasn’t an option for me.

Street hoods, who good people tried to avoid, were my family. I was the only non-Italian in a gang named Cazzuto (Italian for badass). A sympathetic New York City cop, whose family was from the same Czech town as my parents, gave me a choice and a chance. He said, "Pick one, zlodej [thief]: go to jail, testify against your buddies, or join the army and get out while you still can." I earned my GED in the army and avoided Vietnam, but not the preparation for war.

I was back in the moment when I noticed a dark form floating in the water. Jack’s smile turned into a grimace when he saw the dead seal off the starboard side. A propeller had brutally slashed its once-puppy-dog face and sleek, shiny coat. Jack yelled, Watch out, Pop! Someone hit a seal.

I see it. Why is life so goddamned cruel? Some people say things happen for a reason. What could be the reason for this? Maybe things happen because they happen. Or do I live in a world in which all the horrible shit is part of some wacko plan?

Pop, why is there so much bad? Sometimes it feels as if my heart is crying.

I looked at my son, who was on the verge of becoming a man, and wondered, One day Jack magically appeared in my life, and nothing’s been the same. Where did he come from? Why is he such a good person? I haven’t always wanted people to know about the things I’ve done, but look at my son.

A broken heart won’t kill you. But it feels like it will. You can’t have a rainbow without rain.

Sounds kind of Hallmarky, but at least it wasn’t your pal Socrates again.

Speaking of cunts.

Jack scooped a handful of water and splashed me. Nice throw, you little dork. I looked at Jack’s wide smile, and we both burst into stomach-holding, tears running down the face laughter.

I fooled myself into thinking my time with Jack wouldn’t end. Even if I were bad at being a parent, loving him would be enough. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Soon we would say a last goodbye. It was a goodbye like all the others, except there would never be another.

CHAPTER 4

A T 1:00 A.M. on the Saturday after Labor Day, the phone next to Charles Hicks’s bed rang. Hicks.

Hi, Lieut, a boy, age seventeen, was shot and killed tonight. The shooter is in a holding cell. How d’you want to handle it?

What happened?

At about 11p.m., the vic and three buddies stopped to pick up a friend. The perp, a Richard Barrett, lives across the street and came out waving a gun. During an altercation, the boy, John K. Tomsey, was shot. He was DOA at Scripps Mercy. Barrett is an ex-con from Detroit.

"Damn it, Johnson. Another kid. Text me the address, and I’ll do the notification on my way to the station. Hang on to the shooter until I get there. Be nice. Don’t give him a reason to lawyer up. I’m looking forward to questioning him. The sons of bitches always have an excuse for the shitstorm they caused.

Which one do you think this jackass will choose? ‘I had nothing to do with killing the kid’ or ‘it was an accident’? But I’m betting on ‘It was self-defense.’ Maybe he’ll surprise us, but I’m not holding my breath.

Johnson said, This is one time I’m a confused cop. I want to kick the shit out of 8-Mile, but I feel a little sorry for him. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the bread and you’re going to push down the handle on the toaster.

Hicks put on a pot of coffee and yesterday’s suit. Thirty minutes later, he circled a cul-de-sac and found the Tomsey residence. A full moon appeared briefly in a windblown sky and reflected like a spotlight on the Spanish tile roof. In a moment, it was hiding behind fast-moving clouds. A witch’s moon.

Hicks parked his black Ford Vic in front of the Spanish-style two-story suburban home in a heavily treed upper-middle-class neighborhood. A tall stucco wall, with a black wrought-iron gate, enclosed a granite patio. Hicks lowered his window and traded stale cigarette smoke for fresh air.

A dark muscular Chrysler 300, with a man wearing a fedora, came out of the night and slowed as it approached the unmarked sedan. Hicks cupped his cigarette and sank into his seat. The car eased down the street, hesitated, and slipped into the darkness.

I think of my Sharon every time a jackal picks off a kid. She’s a few years older than the teenager killed tonight. I was proud when she was admitted to Columbia. But, god, I miss her. For all the times I’d delivered this dreaded message, I couldn’t imagine getting a death notification for her like the one I’m about to make.

He took a deep breath, pushed it out, and felt for the car’s door handle.

CHAPTER 5

I WAS STARTLED awake by bing-bong , followed by knuckles rapping hard on the front door. A loud knock—a cop’s knock. I did the awkward one-legged hopping thing putting on my pajama bottoms. A suddenly awake Katy was click-click ing her way across the hardwood floor to the door. She took her role as the family greeter seriously.

A tall, trim man, a bit north of middle-aged, crushed out the glow of a cigarette. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut military-style and framed a serious face with wet blue eyes. A map of crooked lines on his forehead told a tale of worry. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and matching tie. The man couldn’t have been more obvious about being a cop unless he’d worn a To Protect and Serve sign. In a past life, I would have made a run for it out the back door.

This can’t be good. I don’t want to open the door. What happened? An accident? Drinking? God, please let him be okay. My heart pounded.

When Jack wanted to leave last night, I remember thinking, He should stay home. It’s late. But as a teen, I went out whenever I wanted. And my son has better judgment than I did. Besides, Jack would have been disappointed if I’d asked him not to go.

There was another hard-knuckle knock, followed by ding-dong, ding-dong. I opened the door, and the somber-faced man, standing in the night, greeted me with a nod. He asked in a quiet, gravelly voice, fragranced with cigarette smoke, Mr. Tomsey?

Yes?

He held up his badge and said, My name is Lieutenant Hicks. I’m a San Diego PD homicide detective. May I come in?

I stepped back and motioned him into the house. Homicide detective?

Are you the father of John Tomsey?

We call him Jack. What’s happened?

I’m sorry, sir. It saddens me to tell you this. Your son has been shot. He’s deceased.

There’s a mix-up. My Jack? I whispered, There’s a mistake.

Mr. Tomsey?

My son is playing broom hockey with his friends. It must have been another kid.

The victim had his wallet on him. The boys with him witnessed his death.

It’s not my Jack. He can’t be dead. Someone must have been holding his wallet.

Sir, the boy was wearing blue shoes.

Jack’s mother called from upstairs, Did Jack forget his key again?

I didn’t answer her and choked out, What the hell happened?

Your son stopped a couple of miles from here to pick up a friend. A neighbor thought he was a vandal and came out of his house with a gun. Your son was shot.

No! No! No!

I’m sorry, Mr. Tomsey. Someone from my office will be contacting you in the morning. You need to be with your family.

Where is my Jack? I need to see him.

I don’t recommend it.

My face burned, and I clenched my fists. Who the fuck hurt my son? I’ll kill the bastard myself.

Mr. Tomsey, the man who shot your son is in custody. I know you’re upset. Please settle down. No more threats. Let us handle it. You need to take care of yourself and your family.

I took a step backward, leaned against the wall, and placed my thumb and index finger into the corners of my eyes in a failed attempt to hold back tears. Back then crying wasn’t something I did every day. The final curtain of my life’s performance came crashing down. There was no applause.

Hicks put a firm hand on my shoulder and said, I’m a dad too. I’ll make sure the bastard is held accountable. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, put it in my hand, turned, and let himself out.

CHAPTER 6

F EET THUNDERED DOWN the steps. Jack’s mother, Chienne, came around the corner into the living room just as Hicks pulled the door closed. Her big hair, plentiful jewelry and makeup, talking too loud and fast, and sometimes saying the same thing twice betrayed her East Coast origins.

What’s going on? Why are you crying?

I put my arm around her and whispered, Jack is dead.

Her face turned ashen, and she sagged forward. I caught her and guided her, stumbling, to the couch. After a few moments, she demanded, What happened? What the hell happened?

I repeated what Hicks had told me.

Chienne cry-yelled, Why did you let him go out? Didn’t I tell you to keep him home? You never listen. You never … She sat leaning forward with her head in her hands and her back heaving with each new burst of emotion. She stood, covered her mouth, and hurried to our bedroom.

Katy started to follow, stopped, came back, and studied me with searching brown eyes. Her tail wagged in slow motion. She jumped on the couch, lay close, and nestled her head in my lap.

#

Later I called my sister, Donna. Air seemed too heavy to breathe. My words came out in bursts. I asked her to let the rest of our families know about the devastating events of the night.

I had to tell the same story a thousand more times. With each forced retelling, I’d look at tilted heads and scrunched faces. People I barely knew tsk-tsked and nodded, working overtime to show me the pain they felt.

Most offered cliché advice. I heard little, cared less, and promised myself the next person who said It’s God’s plan would find out about the rest of God’s plan in the emergency room. They said they understood, but they didn’t. They couldn’t.

CHAPTER 7

H ICKS CAUGHT HIMSELF hustling down Imperial Avenue to the police station. Why am I hurrying? Slow down. You’ve got a perp to question. Taste the ocean-scented air. F ocus.

Richard Barrett’s criminal file was front and center on his desk. Barrett isn’t a first-timer. He served felony time in Detroit for spousal abuse and carrying a concealed stolen weapon. How do people go so wrong?

He watched Barrett through the interrogation room’s one-way mirror and saw a tall muscular man dressed in an oily green mechanic’s uniform with Dick stitched over