I shake my head. “That’s not what happened,” I say.
“Sure, it is. You, David, killed your son. Then you hid the weapon, figured you’d get rid of it when you had the chance.” He leans across the table and flashes that smile again. His teeth are thin and pointy. “Fathers and sons. We are all the same. I would have done anything to keep Mikey out of prison, even though I knew he was guilty. Your father was the same.”
I shake my head again, but his words have the stench of truth in them. My father, the man I loved like no other, believed that I had killed my own son. The thought pierces my heart.
“The DA had a problem now,” Nicky Fisher continues. “It’d rained that night. There was a ton of mud and dirt in those woods. Forensics, they checked all your shoes and clothes. No dirt. No mud. So once your old man planted that bat—once it was found in the woods—it helped keep you free. That didn’t sit well with me, you know what I’m saying?”
I nod because I see it clearly now. “So you got Hilde Winslow to testify that she saw me bury the bat.”
“Bingo.”
“You set that up.”
“I did, yeah.”
“Because you wanted vengeance for Mikey?”
Nicky Fisher points at me. “You say my boy’s name again and I’ll pull out your tongue and eat it with this pizza.”
I say nothing.
“And for crying out loud, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” he snaps, pounding the table with both fists. The two goons look over, but they make no move. “This had nothing to do with vengeance. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
“I’m not following.”
“I did it,” he said through clenched teeth, and now there is real menace in his voice, “because you murdered your own son, you sick crazy son of a bitch.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Your old man knew it. I knew it. Oh, maybe you had some kind of blackout or amnesia thing going on, I don’t know. Who gives a shit? But the DA had you dead to rights. Then your father, the decorated cop who used false evidence to put my son away, fixed it so you’d get off. You ever see a statue of Lady Justice? Your old man put his finger on the scale, so what I did is, I put my finger on the other scale to balance it out. You get it now?”
I don’t even know what to say.
“Justice was served. You were doing time like you were supposed to do. There was, I don’t know, cosmic balance or some such shit. But here’s my problem: My son, my Mikey, is still dead. And here you are, David, living and breathing and enjoying a fucking pizza.”
Silence. Dead silence. It’s like the entire boardwalk is trying to stand still.
His voice is low now, but it slices through the humidity like a reaper’s scythe. “So now I have a choice. Do I put you back in prison—I figured a life sentence is as good as death—or do I kill you and have my boys here feed you to the gators?”
He starts to wipe his hands on the napkin as though this is over.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“About?”
“What you did. It wasn’t the same as with my dad.”
“What wasn’t the same?”
And then I risk saying the name again. “Mikey did the crime. You said so yourself.”
Nicky Fisher scoffs. “Oh, and you’re going to tell me you’re innocent?”
He gestured to the goons with his right hand. They start toward us. I debate bolting. Maybe I have a chance of getting away here at the community. They won’t just shoot me, will they? But I don’t think running will work, so I try another route.
“I’m more than innocent,” I tell him. And I stare directly back into those soulless ice-blue eyes. “My son is alive.”
Then I tell him.
I tell him everything. I make my case and speak with a passion and urgency that surprises me. He sends the two goons back to their posts. I keep talking. Nicky Fisher shows me nothing. He is good at that.
When I finish, Nicky Fisher picks up a napkin again. He studies it for a moment. He takes his time with it, folding it into halves, then quarters, then placing it neatly back on the table.
“That’s some crazy story,” he says.
“It’s the truth.”
“My son is still dead, you know?”
“I can’t do anything about that.”
“No, you can’t.” He shakes his head. “You really believe it.”
I don’t know whether he is asking a question or stating a fact. Either way, I nod my head and say: “I do.”
“I don’t,” he says. His mouth starts twitching a little. “I think it’s crap.”
My heart sinks. He sits back, rubs his face, blinks. He looks off, toward the narrow waterway that pathetically doubles as an ocean. Then he says, “But some things aren’t adding up for me.”
“Like?”
“Like Philip Mackenzie,” he says.
“What about him?”
“He helped you break out of the prison. I know that part is true. So I ask myself: Why? He wouldn’t do that just to help your old man. And why now? And then that makes me wonder about more stuff.” His fingers start drumming the table. “Like once you were out, you could have gone underground, tried to make a new life for yourself, whatever. But you didn’t do that. Like a stupid lunatic, you ran straight to our phony witness. Why? And then after you see her, you’re stupid enough—check that, you’re suicidal enough—to come at my people in Revere. Skunk, of all people.”
I don’t interrupt. I let him keep going.
“So here’s my problem, David: If you’re telling the truth, then I helped put you in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. Not that I’m above that. I mean, we’ve had people take the fall before. But not—I mean, not for something like this. Bad enough to lose a child. To be put in jail for killing him? I don’t know. Right now, that doesn’t sit right with me. See, I thought I was balancing the scales. I wanted justice for myself, my Mikey—and, I don’t know, the world. You know what I’m saying?”
He hesitates, waiting for a response. I nod slowly.
“I was sure you did it. But if you didn’t, and if somehow your boy is maybe still alive…”
Nicky Fisher shakes his head. Then he stands. He looks off toward that ocean-cum-lagoon again. His eyes still glisten, and I know he’s thinking of his Mikey.
“You’re free to go,” he says to me. “My guys will fly you wherever you want.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says this. I don’t risk saying anything back.
“I’m an old man. Made a lot of mistakes. I’ll probably make a few more before I’m done. I’m not trying to make it right with the man upstairs. Too late for that. I think…this place. It’s not just about nostalgia for me. It sometimes feels more like a do-over. You know what I’m saying?”
I don’t. Not really.
“If your old man feels better, I’d like to fly him down here. As my guest. I want to sit right here and have a pizza with him. I think we’d both like that, don’t you?”