“I know what you did on this date.”
Tom Duvall stared at the note for the third time, observing its fancy script and blue ink,
written in cursive. Below the words were numbers, looking just as fancy: 2/15/25.
He licked his lips, body fidgeting in the highbacked recliner. “What do you make of it,
Mr. Torres?”
His bodyguard, enforcer and confidant to the McManus Mob’s consigliere, shrugged.
“I’ll check with Frankie the Forger. It’s got prints, so I’ll have a friend of ours on the
force run it through the database.” He took it with a gloved hand. “If someone touched this note
and has a rap sheet, we’ll know who’s trying to intimidate you, Mr. Duvall.”
Mr. Torres looked at the photo on his boss’s desk. “What about your new bride?”
“Sherrie?” Tom snorted at the hot babe grinning back at him from the frame, barely more
than half his age. “She’s sweet, perfect bod, but dumb as a post. Can’t spell BMW. Probably
thinks cursive involves swear words.”
They shared a chuckle.
“What about the ex-Mrs. Duvall?” his bodyguard suggested.
Tom slowly nodded. “Yeah, we didn’t exactly part on good terms, when she found out
about Sherrie while we were still technically married.”
Mr. Torres jotted down some notes on paper. “February 15…is there anything you or we
did on that date that would tick off someone?”
The mob lawyer nodded. “We had to make Aaron Carlson disappear that night two years
ago. See what his family thinks.”
Mr. Torres gave a slight nod and disappeared from the office.
The next day, Mr. Torres had some answers. “Your ex is more obsessed with a Greek
shipping boss from New York. The prints came up negative in our search. And the Carlsons
think the Marrones made Aaron disappear.”
Tom sighed. “Well, that’s a relief.”
Mr. Torres didn’t smile. “And there’s another note.”
“I Know What You Did On This Date”
Tom trembled as he read it out loud. “I’ll never forget what you did on this date.” Again,
the telltale numbers 2/15/25 accompanied it.
The consigliere groaned. “Frankie got any clues?”
Mr. Torres shook his head. “Still looking at the other one.”
Tom glanced over his calendar. “That was the day of the O’Neal trial. We bribed Judge
Aiello to throw out the case on jurisdictional grounds.”
“Aren’t the Feds after him?”
Tom nodded, his Bourbon sloshing around in his glass. “Got a pal with the Fibbies?”
Mr. Torres smiled. “Of course. We’ll see if we can unseal that indictment a little early.
And maybe you should carry around the Glock instead of locking it in the cabinet, okay?”
Tom nodded.
But the gun didn’t make him feel safer the next day, as he found a new note. It read “I
can’t wait to repay you on Friday,” with the same ominous date below the cursive.
“It isn’t Judge Aiello who wrote it,” Mr. Torres explained. “He pled guilty to a lot of
watered-down charges and doesn’t want to admit to taking a bribe. He’s about to be sentenced to
a swanky Club Fed prison.”
Tom swore. He wanted answers.
“Frankie the Forger suspects a gal is writing this.”
Those words from Mr. Torres got Tom’s attention. “We kidnapped Don Marrone’s
girlfriend a few years ago in mid-February, to get him to back off a takeover of the docks. We
held her for weeks until he paid a ransom. See if it was her.”
He wrote a name on the back of an envelope, which disappeared into Mr. Torres’ jacket
pocket.
“She has no clue who nabbed her,” Mr. Torres told his boss the next day, as the dreaded
date was fast approaching. “My source in the Marrones thinks it was the Carlsons who did it.
The wife was blindfolded the whole time, so she knows nothing. Now she’s Suburbia Mommy.”
“Well, that’s a relief, but we still don’t know who wants to get me…wait! Oswald
Jenkins!” Tom suddenly remembered. “We canned Ozzie three years ago from the firm on
February 15. He was drinking and wouldn’t leave the girls alone. Maybe he got a barmaid to
write this.”
Mr. Torres stood up. “I’m on it, sir.”
That night, Sherrie slid next to the lawyer on the sofa at home. “Why so glum, Tom?”
He sighed. “Someone at work is after me.”
She giggled. “Are you sure it’s not someone at home?” She put her arms around him.
He thought about what she said. No…they had been married in June, not February.
Plus,
her handwriting made a doctor’s note look like the Declaration of Independence. “Sorry
hon…just stressed.” He untangled himself from her arms. “Another time, maybe.”
But the next day, Duvall’s mood did not improve.
“Found Mr. Jenkins at the warming shelter,” Mr. Torres explained. “Drunk as usual.
Didn’t remember he had ever been an attorney.”
“Well, great!” Tom hurled a book at the wall. “Nobody I know has any connection to
February 15.”
“I Know What You Did On This Date”
“I suggest you remain at home tomorrow,” Mr. Torres spoke quietly. “I’ll supervise your
security there too.”
The next day, Friday the Fifteenth, Duvall spent working from home, but not on anything
involving his legal practice. The consigliere looked over all his files, trying to track down who
would want to hurt him so badly.
That evening, he poured himself another Bourbon with a shaky hand. Another note
saying “Today’s the day” was brought in by a servant. He hadn’t even showered or shaved.
Glancing in the mirror, he saw the bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair…the part that wasn’t
bald. The door was open to his panic room.
Glock was loaded, one in the chamber, safety off. He
had sent Sherrie out with the platinum card and told her to have fun, so she wouldn’t be around
for whatever was going to happen that night.
He mulled over the possible suspects…could the cops or some prosecutor be messing
with him? Could it be Don Marrone in a gangland bout of intimidation? Or was Mister McManus
planning a little downsizing?
What about Mr. Torres? He knew so little about the Guatemalan from Antigua. He
thought he treated the mob man well, but maybe his bodyguard and confidant might want to
move up in the syndicate and replace him in the inner circle.
He froze, hearing soft steps creeping up the stairs.
Beads of sweat covered his pate. Heart thumping like a racquetball on the court, bouncing
off the walls. He held up the Glock, pointing it at the door.
The wooden slab creaked open. The
finger on his trigger locked up, so he couldn’t even pull it even if he tried.
In crept a figure, wrapped in a cloak. His gun hand trembled. Then he recognized the red
hair.
Sherrie.
“Hey hon…thanks for the credit card.” His wife beamed. “Can’t wait to show you what I
got for you.”
In the gloom, she looked at the gun in his hand, eyes wide. “Ooohhh…don’t shoot me!”
She giggled, putting up her hands in mock surrender. “What’s next? Handcuffs?”
Tom groaned. Normally he’d be like a cartoon wolf, howling, crawling on the floor
toward her. But tonight…
“Sorry, Sherrie.” He set down the gun on the bed. “Just been stressed this week.
Somebody’s been after me.”
“I know,” the redhead began, then picked up the gun before he realized what was going
on. “Is this about the notes? Those were from me.”
He struggled to speak. “But the writing….the spelling….”
She smiled. “I got my sister Sandee to write those for me. I wanted to set up something
for tonight.”
His eyes couldn’t leave the barrel of the gun. “But what….why?”
She wagged her finger at him. “You haven’t been spending much time with me. I know
it’s kinda extreme, but I wanted to do something a little different…”
His eyes followed every movement of the firearm. He regretted setting it down.
“I….I…I’m sorry I’ve ignored you,” Tom stammered. “I promise I’ll be different from
now on. But why the 15 th ? Why that day?”
Sherrie smiled. “It was our first date…don’t you remember what happened that evening?”
He shook his head warily. “But that was Valentine’s Day.”
“I Know What You Did On This Date”
“I know,” she replied. “But we didn’t do it until after midnight.”
“Uh, but wh-why that….” He pointed at the Glock. What had he done, he wondered.
Sherrie looked at it. “Oh…is it real?” she shrieked, tossing it on the bed, as if suddenly
discovering it was a snake.
Then she whipped off the cloak to reveal a new purchase from
Victoria’s Secret, which she modeled by twirling around in front of him. “Well, here’s the big
surprise! Happy Anniversary, Tom!” she squealed.
Bio:
Dr. John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He wrote for his college paper at Trinity University in San Antonio and at Marquette University. He earned his doctorate at Florida State University, analyzed data in Washington DC, and is now a Professor at LaGrange College. He writes a weekly column for newspapers and magazines (https://muckrack.com/john-