Page 77 of Thug

“Sure.”

“I’m not saying any of it’s true.”

“I understand.” He wrung his hands together. “It’s just what you’ve heard.”

“Right.”

His brows raised. “I’d like to hear it.”

I decided to keep it short. “You and your mom and dad were in the car, and the police shot up the car and killed your parents.”

He straightened his posture. “Any other details?”

“You were shot once or twice.”

His face took on a serious look. “Why’d the police shoot the car?”

I felt like he was luring me into a trap. It was important that he understand the stories weren’t mine. They floated around Marana like a fog that never lifted. Price’s father, like Price, was a local legend. Like it or not, people talked about them. There were still marks in the concrete walls of the diner where the stray bullets ricocheted off the walls. They hadn’t repaired them for a reason. I found it surprising they hadn’t placed a bronze plaque there, declaring it as the last stand of Mister McNealy, the bank robber.

“You want to know what they said?” I asked. “Not what I believe, because I don’t believe any of it. My dad was a piece of shit and a criminal, but I didn’t always believe what people told me.”

His tone softened. “Just tell me what you heard.”

I felt a little more at ease. “That your…that your parents had robbed…they had just robbed the bank. They got in a shootout with the police.”

“What if I told you my father didn’t even have a gun?”

I was astonished. I leaned forward. “He didn’t?”

He shook his head. “No. He sure didn’t. Neither did my mother, if you’re wondering.”

“Neither of them?”

“Nope.”

“But. Why did the cops—”

“My father had a tattoo on his forearm of a knife and a bird’s wing. The banker thought he recognized it from a previous robbery when he was at another bank a few years back. When my parents got up to leave, he pressed the silent alarm and then called the police. Gave the cops a description of their car. We were sitting in the car singing when they came screeching around the corner. The rest became local history.” His gaze fell to the floor. “Lies, but history.”

“Oh my God.” I covered my mouth with my hands. “That’s awful.”

He looked up. “Worst thing about it? Well maybe not the worst, but it’s close. We went there so they could open a savings account for me. I was a natural at math when I was four or five. Hell, I was reading my dad’s westerns when I was six. They wanted me to go to college, and he said he was going to make sure I got there. I stayed in the car to listen to the song that was playing. Lovely Rita, by the Beatles. Haven’t listened to the Beatles since. Can’t fucking stand ‘em.”

I hated that I’d lived my life thinking otherwise. I wanted to go tell everyone in Marana the truth. Explain that everything they though they knew was a lie. An awful, terrible lie.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Worst thing is this. One of the cops tossed a gun in the car. Planted it. I watched him. I was covered in blood. Hell, they thought I was dead, at first. At the time, I didn’t really understand why he did it. I was eight. Almost nine. Wasn’t dumb by any means, but I trusted cops. While I was in the hospital, I told my aunt what happened. She knew they weren’t robbing the bank, but she didn’t know the whole truth.”

“What did she do?”

“Filed a report. Tried to file a lawsuit. They swore the gun was my father’s.” He tilted his head toward the back room. “His were in that safe. Hell, they’re still in there today. Cops set his ass up, so they didn’t look like cold-blooded murderers.”

I felt terrible for Price. It saddened me to no end that the general public believed what the police said, and that there was no opportunity for him to tell the truth.

“I don’t even…” My voice trailed off to nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I sat and stared at him with unfocused eyes, trying to decide what it would be like if the same thing happened to me.

“Started the MC not too long after high school,” he said. “Figured if the cops were going to label me the son of an outlaw biker, I’d give ‘em something to talk about.”