The Roundhouse: A Crime of Passion, Part I

By the droop of the dogwood tree in the front yard and the beads of sweat on the foreheads of passing housewives, I could tell that another steamy Nashville Summer was officially upon us. I had been staring out the front window for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, thinking of nothing in particular, wishing for a storm front to blow in from Wisconsin. There hadn’t been any action in the office for weeks. The outbox was piling up with unpaid bills and Stan had been on a bender for the last three days. Something had to give.

My cell phone began pumping out a popular European dance remix. Blocked caller. I assumed it was a collection agency but, feeling the need to explain something about something to someone, I hit the little green button and hoped for the best.

“Lifechangers. This is David speaking.”

“Uh, hello. May I speak with Stan?” A male voice, over thirty, Caucasian.

“Stan’s indisposed,” I lied, knowing full well that he was most likely holding court at Stinky’s, a fresh shot of E&J brandy by his left paw and two lines of Bolivian Marching Powder on the bar in front of him. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I see. Um. Well, I have an issue.”

“OK. What seems to be the trouble, uh...”

“Marty,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Right. Marty. So what’s on your mind?”

He sighed. “I’ve been assaulted. By a woman. At a wedding.”

Two hours later I was pulling into the gravel driveway of a house in East Nashville, a gray vinyl-sided rancher with a bright red door. Before knocking I checked the name on a fresh copy of Dog Fancy that was poking out of the mailbox on the patio. John Deaderick. John Marty Deaderick? Doubtful.

The door opened to reveal a tall, thin man with broad shoulders and an intelligent forehead. He thanked me for coming, extended a firm handshake and led me back to a medium-sized kitchen. The dishes were neatly filed in a draining rack, the counter tops were spotless. A picture of a Doberman Pinscher was pinned to the refigerator with a John Deere magnet. Behind the scent of citrus Fabreze, the slightest tang of burnt coffee and recently-emptied ashtrays hung in the air like a bad memory.

“Do you like dogs, Marty?” I asked.

He looked confused for a moment, then remembered. “Oh yeah,” he replied. He pulled a glass bottle from the refrigerator and poured two glasses of pineapple juice. “That’s Latetitia, right outside.” From behind sliding glass doors that opened onto a back deck, the Doberman from the fridge was peering at me. Deaderick walked to the door and did a quick little jig in front of it. “She’s my sweetie, my honey-pie, my rag time gal,” he sang. The dog began pawing the glass with considerable force, long strands of saliva dripping from its jaws to the decking.

“So, Marty, got a wife, girlfriend?”

“Nope. Here, try some of this pineapple juice.” He grabbed the glasses from the counter. “It really wakes you up. It’s good for toothaches.” He sat down at the dining table across from me.

I pulled out my pad and pen.“Your teeth are bothering you?”

”My teeth are killing me.” He tapped a finger on the left side of his jaw. “This is where she popped me.”

The ‘she’ in question, he had explained to me on the phone that morning, was Rachel Heusenstamm, a 29 year-old graphic designer from Laguna Beach. The previous Saturday, at the wedding of Daniel Tashian and Lillie Fish, Deaderick, after consuming two Pina Coladas and taking several turns around the dance floor, had approached a table at which several of his friends were seated, ostensibly to make a humorous comment.

“I’m a real wise-ass, a funny guy. People expect me to be funny,” he explained.

He was on his feet in the kitchen now, demonstrating for me how he had leaned on the table, palms down, taking a moment to establish eye contact with everyone at the table, who were, he assumed, waiting for him to say something funny. By this point, all of the guests were looking at him except one, the woman seated to his immediate right, exactly where I was now.

“... and then, out of nowhere, she turns around, barely even looking, and slaps me as hard as she can. Roundhouses me! I mean, it was crazy. Crazy!”

“And you had ever met her before?”

“Never!”

“So she had no obvious reason for hitting you.”

“Not unless you call crazy obvious. Crazy. Obvious. Nah.” He shook his head and considered he two empty juice glasses. “That shit was crazy, man. That’s obvious.”

“You said on the phone that you’re not interested in pressing charges.”

He put the glasses in the sink and turned, waving his finger in the air. “Hell no. I just want her to know what it feels like to get popped and not be able to do anything about it. Goddamn. If I’d hit someone that hard at the wedding they would have arrested me. But what’s gonna happen to her? Fuck all.” He finished washing the glasses, put them on the dish rack. “Assault! It’s not fair.”

“OK. So where does Lifechangers come in?”

“Who?”

“Lifechangers. It’s the name of our company.”

It took him five minutes of pacing and fingernail chewing to tell me what he wanted Stan and I to do. It would take a lifetime to forget doing it. But our cash flow had trickled to nothing. And I knew that Stan’s liver wouldn’t hold up under much more inactivity.

“Marty. What you’re asking me to do is not a task that will bring me any pleasure.” The pineapple juice had gone straight to my gums. I was edgy. “Our fee is non-negotiable. I require half up front, the rest to be paid upon third party confirmation that the deed has been done.”

“Fine with me.” He pulled a velcro Dixie Chicks wallet out of his back pocket and put five one hundred dollar bills on the table. I folded them into my money clip and settled back in my chair.

“First, we have get a few things straight. This kind of thing is going to require total honesty from you. We don’t need any bullshit clogging up the communication pipeline.”

“I know. I know.” He was back gnawing his fingernails again.

“Say, you wouldn’t have any coffee, would you... John?”

He stopped chewing a fingernail and raised his eyebrows at me.

“Look, Mr. Deaderick,” I began. “You don’t run this racket for 12 years without picking up a trick or two along the way.” I pulled a cigarette from my pack and lit up. “I’m a patient man, John. I eat black liquorice for breakfast. I ride a yellow bicycle.” I paused to exhale and ash on his floor. “Please don’t test my patience again.”

“I had to know if I could trust you.” He pulled a marble ash tray from behind a discreet stack of vintage Danish pornography and placed it in front of me. “I use Prell shampoo. I’m a Capricorn.” He looked out the glass doors, where Latetia was quietly pulling the head off of a dead squirrel. “My grandfather’s name was Marty.”