right, “You come in here pushin’ and shovin’ and you just want to talk?” “Yes. About a woman you’re never going to see again.” Larry’s eyes widened then sharpened. “You’re the one,” he said,“I’m gonna kill you.” Spittle flying from his mouth, Larry took a wild roundhouse swing that Jake side-stepped causing him to miss by a foot. Unable to stop his momentum, Larry spun around and fell to the floor. For the second time in a minute, he was on his hands and knees. He began to fast-crawl from the anteroom, mumbling, “My gun, got to get the gun. Kill him.” Adrenaline burst inside Jake, and he sprang and slammed Larry onto his back. He took the switchblade from his jacket. Straddling Larry with his knees, Jake pressed his left hand on Larry’s mouth, while his right laid the knife’s blade against his neck. Face contorted in rage, he growled, “Forget about your gun. Just shut your fuckin’ mouth and listen.” There was fear in Larry’s eyes. Jake’s anger rose to a fury that threatened his breathing and his reason. In order not to hyperventilate, he forced himself to hold his breath. Larry moaned and lost control of his bladder, soiling himself and Jake’s pant leg. His tears flowed onto the Persian rug. Jake’s exhale came out ragged, and he leaned to within six inches of Larry’s face. “You ever contact Mai Faca, I’ll kill you. You got that?” In spite of the pressure from the hand over his mouth, Larry nodded. His breathing was labored and his eyes bulged. A picture of Mai under this man, at the mercy of his abusive ministrations, brought an uncontrollable rage from the pit of Jake’s stomach to his strong arms and hands. He wanted to tear Larry apart. Jake plunged the knife into Larry’s neck slashing to the ear. Blood gushed as if from a fire hose. Larry went into a spasm that ended with his open, unblinking eyes fixed upon Jake. As if in a dream, Jake removed the knife from the neck and stared at the crimson blade. A lifetime passed before he blinked. Drenched in blood, he ran a forearm across the wet on his face, and stained his sleeve red. With both arms he pushed off Larry’s body and stood keeping his feet in place. It occurred to him to check for a pulse, so he leaned and pressed a finger on the neck. A glop of dark blood oozed from the wound. Grabbing the dead man’s collar and shaking it, he said, “Shit. I didn’t mean . . . ” but couldn’t finish. What do I do? Call the police, say it was an accident. No. No one would believe me. Mai’s words came to him. She had wished Larry dead. Had it been his intention from the beginning to follow her command?
Author bio:
Donald R. Grippo, DDS, practiced oral and maxillofacial surgery in northeastern Connecticut for more than thirty years. His resume includes working as a dentist at the Tennessee State Prison outside of Nashville and as a guard at the Hartford State Jail in Hartford, Connecticut.
These life experiences were drawn upon to tell a story and bring depth to the characters in To Sleep, Perchance to Die. Don is a native of Enfield, Connecticut. He went to Suffield Academy in Suffield, Connecticut, and Syracuse University, where he majored in psychology. He received his dental degree from Meharry Medical College School of Dentistry in Nashville, Tennessee, and his oral and maxillofacial surgical training at Weill Cornell Medical College/The New York Hospital in New York City. He has lived most of his adult life in Windham Center and Mystic, Connecticut. His current residence is Sanford, Florida.
To learn more visit http://dongrippo.com/.
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Text: Donald R. Grippo
Publication Date: 11-10-2013
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