Page 27 of A Handsome Devil

“The cops, you dumbasses! You’re fucking wanted for murder!”

That was a good reason for a silent pause. We all stared at each other for different reasons. Erin panted defiantly, hands on hips, eyes flashing. I slowly, numbly, bent to pick up my shirt, like feeble action was the only answer to a literal charge of murder.

“Well.” Alessio shrugged. “I was the only murderer there.”

Erin jammed her forefinger into her own chest. “Well I know that, duh! But of course the kids told the cops what they saw! And the oldest kid was all super-proud of you.” Her upper lip actually snarled when she looked at Alessio.

It was time for me to open my dumb mouth. “Erin. We all know that guy deserved what he got. You should’ve seen the kids all cheering for Alessio here.”

“Yeah,” Alessio said to me. “It must’ve been Tyler who told the cops.”

Erin said, “Well, they wouldn’t name names of the kids, of course. All they’d tell me was a CCTV caught some kids dragging a body out of their car, trying to leave it in a creek by Lawrence Livermore Lab. But they must’ve seen the “no dumping” sign because they put the body back into the trunk. Cops got the license plate and tracked it to Leonard Skinner’s house. Cops somehow figured out it was Alessio Messina”—she glared at him—“recently helping an inmate escape from a shitstained ambulance, who’d done the deed.” She paused for drama. “Some hair salon guy told them you’d all recently been in there, talking about taking out Skinner.”

For lack of anything else to say, Erin stormed to the empty coffee pot and shook it around. It occurred to her to yell, “You’re officially on the run now! There’s a BOLO on you.”

Did Alessio just grin like a lion?

I asked, “What did you tell the cops?”

“Well of course I acted dumb. But I did say ‘take no chances on them, as they are desperate men.’”

Alessio rolled his eyes now. “Oh, just great. Now they’re getting the cavalry after us.”

“No shit!” Erin yelled, more quietly now. “You know, news channels don’t survive on boring stories about foreclosures and climate change. People tune in to hear shit like this!”

That gave me an idea. I took three long strides to my suitcase, flipped it open, and withdrew my laptop. Jamming my butt onto the bed, I tapped to the latest local Bay Area news. Alessio bounced onto the mattress next to me, breath hot on my shoulder. Erin took my other side.

She shrieked, “See? See?” before I had a chance to see.

Sure as shit, an article about Alessio Messina dominated the front page, his name bigger and bolder than an article about a 4-bedroom garden apartment asking four million, and one about whale communication.

“Desperate Musician Kills Former Abuser,” the headline yelled, next to a promo photo of Alessio looking dapper and divine, his nose in perfect profile.

I read aloud. “Desperate musician Alessio Messina tracked down his childhood abuser, his foster father Leonard Skinner, in Livermore. Mr. Skinner had apparently been abusing—”

“Apparently?” Erin and Alessio shouted in tandem.

“—not only Messina but many other foster children for years. Skinner was shot in the head at close range, execution style—”

“They love saying ‘execution style’,” noted Erin.

Alessio added, “They always have to say ‘apparently.’”

“—before the revenge killer departed the crime scene, where dirty boys clad in rags applauded being freed from their rapist. ‘Alessio’s a hero,’ claimed more than one boy. The home was discovered to be filled with child pornography. Boys had for years been beseeching the Child Welfare Agency, filing reports against Mr. Skinner, but no action had been taken.

The outlaw killer, dubbed ‘The Western Will-o’-the-wisp Bandit,’ was also known to have robbed a fentanyl dealer in Fresno, so police believe he is heading east. Any information leading to his arrest, please call blah blah number.” My voice faded as a cold sweat began flowing down my torso.

“Wow,” said Erin, grabbing the laptop and swiping around. “Look here, another nationwide article on CNN. ‘Police are also on the lookout for Messina’s accomplice, Denmark Groover, who broke out of prison earlier in the week. Alessio’s friends took to social media, pulling for his freedom. “Everybody send prayers to my brother and musical mate,” said Smoot Schmid in a post to X, a saxophonist with Messina’s band, Moist Division. Schmid used to travel the world with Messina…” Erin faded away, maybe afraid to remind Alessio of better times. Spinning the laptop back onto my thighs, she stood, jamming her hands onto her hips.

“Well! That’s it, then. I’m coming with you.”

“Are you sure?” I queried. “You know you’re putting yourself in danger.”

“Not if I don’t do any of the crimes. We need a name for our club.”

“Club?”

“Yeah. We’re an outlaw club now. How about The Souls of Mischief?”