All I wanted to do was to stop my stepfather’s brother from beating me up all the time. I never intended for everything to happen the way it did--I just wanted to stop the beatings. A man can only take so much.

     It was really my stepfather’s fault. Just because I could never talk very well, he called me retarded. Well, I’m not. I’m not a scientist or anything, but I know that having a speech impediment doesn’t mean I’m retarded. My stepfather joked to all his drinking buddies that he had to make do with a half-wit son and a run-down motel.

     News flash: I’m not his son and it’s not his motel. It’s my motel. And it’s not run-down, either. It’s in good condition and has a good location, just off the Jersey Turnpike. With a little attention it would turn into a bigger money-maker than the chain motels. It’s called the Pine Barrens Motel, even though it’s not really in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. But it’s close enough, I guess. My parents used to own it, and then just my mother when my father died.

     After his death, my mother got sick a lot and had a hard time managing the motel, even with my help. Because of my speech impediment people couldn't understand me very well over the telephone. For a while, my mother thought we would have to sell the motel, but instead she got re-married. I guess she got the help she needed from my new stepfather, but I didn’t like him. He was mean to me when she wasn’t around.

     When my mother died, she left the motel to me in her will. The judge didn’t let me have the motel right away, though, but said I had to wait until I turned twenty-one. Until then, my stepfather was supposed to hold it in trust for me. Or something like that.

     But last year, when I turned twenty-one, he refused to let me have it and said if I made trouble I’d be put in a home where I belonged. He had a lawyer explain it all to me, how they could do it and how my best bet was not to try to do anything about it.

     He still made me do the maintenance work and supervise the cleaning ladies, both of which I didn’t mind doing anyway. I’ve always been good at fixing things, and the cleaning ladies are the only people who understand me very well. But in order to understand me they had to listen carefully and pay attention real hard.

     This is an effort that my stepfather and his brother, Caesar, never bothered to make. Caesar lived just over the bridge in Philadelphia, but he spent a lot of time at the motel. Thirty years ago he boxed professionally, using the ring name Little Caesar. He grew old and heavy but not too old or too heavy to prevent him from beating me up whenever he wanted.

     Almost every week he got drunk and picked a fight with me. If I didn’t fight back, he hit me anyway, so I tried to learn to block his punches. Nothing ever worked, though, and people got used to seeing me with black eyes and bruises on Sundays. My stepfather always watched the whole fight, then shook his head and called me retarded. They both said I was pitiful to be beaten up by an old man.

     Finally, though, I had enough. I didn’t want to be beaten up anymore, but I couldn’t run away or anything because then my stepfather would keep the motel for himself. I couldn’t let that happen because I wanted to make some big changes to it. Before my father died, he talked to me all the time about adding a swimming pool and a restaurant so that the motel would make more money and he could take better care of my mother. It’s too late to help my mother, but I want to finish my father’s dream anyway.

     One of us had to go, and if not me it had to be Caesar. But I couldn't even make him stop beating me, never mind make him leave the motel and stay away. But if I made the police think that Caesar was a criminal, they would put him in jail. I could easily imagine Caesar as a criminal, so it didn’t take me too long to come up with a plan to trick the police into arresting him. Like I said, just because I have a speech impediment doesn’t mean I’m retarded.

     My plan started with robbing a guest and ending with Caesar going to jail for committing the robbery. Framing him wasn’t a nice thing to do, but Caesar wasn’t very nice and as I said, a man can take only so much.

     I based my plan on two things. First, Caesar had routines that he always followed, though I’m not sure he was even aware of them. Second, I knew his routines like a book. In order to avoid Caesar’s fists as much as possible, I made it my business to know what he'd do. Sometimes I knew what he was going to do before he did.

     Like his Friday night routine. He always spent Friday night here at the motel, showing up about five o’clock carrying a couple of six-packs of beer. For the next hour, he and my stepfather would sit in the TV Room next to the office, drinking beer and complaining about how bad their lives were.

     I didn’t have to work Friday nights because my stepfather wanted me to start cleaning early on Saturday mornings, and he said that I deserved the night off. Really, he just didn’t want me around while he and Caesar got drunk and talked about the old days.

     If Caesar was very hung over on Saturday morning, which was usually the case, he'd be in a bad mood and pick a fight with me. He hit me especially hard if he and my stepfather had been reminiscing about the old days and how Little Caesar almost made it to the big time.

     Anyway, Caesar always parked in the handicap-only spot on the side of the office and he always left his keys in the ignition. At six o’clock on Friday nights, when the news came on, Caesar got into his car and drove off. He always came back in about half an hour, and he always brought back more beer and two Italian subs. My stepfather stayed at the motel, in case a guest showed up.

     I didn’t want to hurt the guest I intended to rob, so I used the sleeping pills that belonged to my mother before she died. I had kept them along with everything else of hers that my stepfather didn’t throw away or sell. It was a very big bottle and I took out all the pills and crushed them into a powder.

     Then I put the powder in a jar and hid the jar in the water heater room. Nobody ever went in there except me, and just in case someone did, I had a secret hiding spot. It’s an old paint can half full of dried-up paint. I put the jar in my special paint can, put the lid on, and put the can back with the others on the rickety steel shelving way in the corner.

     Then, that Friday afternoon, just before five o’clock, the last thing I did was make a pot of drugged coffee. I snuck the sleeping pill powder out and mixed it with the coffee grounds before I started the coffee maker. I hoped that the hot water would dissolve the sleeping pill powder and mix it with the coffee. Then I told my stepfather that I was leaving.

     I pretended to go to my room at the end of the building, but really I hung around outside until a guest showed up. One did right away, and it was a good one--a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. When I saw him come out with a Styrofoam cup full of coffee, I figured this was the perfect opportunity. At least that’s what I figured at the time.

     The businessman took his briefcase and coffee and went into Room Number Eight, our best unit, so I went to my room and watched out the window until Caesar drove up in his battered blue Mercury. Like clockwork, he parked in the handicap spot and walked into the office with some beer.

     I waited half an hour, then walked past the office on the way to Number Eight. Both my stepfather and Caesar were watching TV and drinking beer. For the next half hour, they would only get up when a guest arrived looking for a room. After passing the office, I peeked into the Mercury. Sure enough, the keys dangled from the ignition.

     When I got to the businessman’s room, I was scared. What if he hadn’t drunk the coffee, or if the sleeping pill powder didn’t work? Just in case he wasn’t unconscious, I had made up a story to tell him about fixing the toilet. I had tools and yellow rubber gloves with me to make it look good. At the last minute, I put the gloves on so I'd look like I was about to go to work. No one answered when I knocked, so I let myself in with my maintenance key.

     I needn’t have worried about the sleeping pill powder doing its job. The man lay sprawled on the bed, sound asleep with all his clothes on. I took his briefcase and left, closing the door behind me.

     I hurried over to Caesar’s Mercury with the briefcase. Then I took the keys out of the ignition and opened the trunk. My plan was to leave the briefcase in the trunk and let the businessman call the police after I left a note under his door telling him to look in the blue Mercury’s trunk. I suppose if I’d stuck to that, everything might have worked out fine. But I was curious to know what was in the briefcase, since Caesar was going to jail for stealing it.

     I balanced the briefcase on the edge of the trunk, and snapped it open. Something popped loudly and purple dye squirted on me, all over my shirt and pants. Luckily none got on my face, and the rubber gloves protected my hands. But it startled me and I jumped back. The briefcase toppled over and landed on the ground, scattering big packets of money everywhere.

     This was great. Caesar would get twenty years for stealing all this money.

     In fact, there was so much money, I decided to use some to frame my stepfather, too. I didn’t have a plan for that, so I’d have to improvise as I went along.

     Most of the packages of money had been soaked with the purple dye. These I threw into the trunk, along with the briefcase. The money without any dye I put aside to use to frame my stepfather. I found a rag in the trunk and wiped the dye off the bumper as best as I could, then closed the trunk lid. I put the keys back into the ignition and hid the dye-soaked rag under the front seat.

     Picking up the rest of the money, I hurried to my room. Now I just had to wait until Caesar left for beer and sandwiches. While I waited I put the money packets into a plastic grocery bag. Finally, six o’clock came and Caesar swaggered out of the office toward his car.

     I grabbed the grocery bag with the money and ran along the back of the motel. When I got to the electrical room, I hurried in and tripped the breakers for Room Numbers 1 through 6. Then I snuck back to the office and hid near the side door until my stepfather left to fix what he thought was an electrical problem.

     I knew I didn’t have to hurry. Even though the guests would call him immediately about losing their electricity, his first action would be to try to call my room to have me fix it. When I didn’t answer the phone, he’d have to go out the back door to the electrical room to fix the problem himself. Then the office would be empty and I could plant the money in the cash register, and frame him too. I could hardly wait.

     The phone rang and my stepfather answered it. He mumbled into it for a minute and then hung up. The phone rang again immediately. Guests were calling about their lights being out. This time I overheard my stepfather say, “Yeah, I know. I’ll fix it.” He slammed the receiver down hard and swore.

     This is where things started to fall apart. First, I heard a noise like someone grunting. I peeked around the corner of the office and saw Caesar in the parking lot. He should have been gone by now, but there he was standing by his trunk counting money. His trunk was still closed, so I didn’t know what was going on.

     Then, when my stepfather left the office, he came out the wrong door. Instead of going out the back door like I thought he would, he came out the side door almost next to where I was hiding. Instead of going to the electrical room, he was heading for the darkened motel rooms. I don’t know what he thought he could do there, but he nearly caught me. He passed by only three feet away, but luckily he didn’t see me standing in the shadows.

     I ducked into the empty office without being spotted, but this was where I made my first really big mistake. Instead of planting the money right away, I first emptied out the drugged coffee and made a fresh pot. I didn’t want to drug anyone else, but that job cost me too much time.

     Once the coffee was brewing, I opened the cash register. There was a place behind the till where we kept rolls of coins. As I started to put the money packets in there, I saw Caesar walking back toward the office. As fast as I could, I closed the register drawer and got out of the office. I didn't get out more than a second before Caesar came in.

     My problem was that I had time to put only two of the money packages in the cash register. I still had nine left in the bag. If I hadn’t spent all that time making coffee, I could have finished framing my stepfather.

     I didn’t know what to do next so I headed back toward my room. I hoped that I would have another chance to plant the money. That’s when I saw two men hammering on the door to Room Number Eight. I stood in the shadows and watched.

     This wasn’t good. I still had to leave a note under the door of Room Number Eight telling the guest to look in Caesar’s trunk. After a couple of minutes, they stopped hammering on the door and started walking toward the office.

     When they got to the back of Caesar’s car, one of them pointed to the back bumper where I had missed wiping off some of the dye. They both got really excited. The other one got down on his hands and knees and touched the wet spot the dye had made on the pavement. Then he looked in the car and found the dye-soaked rag. I didn’t want them to find the money on me, so I ran to the water heater room and hid the money in my secret paint can. When I came out, I heard loud voices in the parking lot.

     The two men and Caesar were standing behind his car and he was telling them he found the money on the ground under his trunk. I guess I must have missed one when I picked up the packets earlier.

     The men didn’t believe him and made him open the trunk. When they saw the briefcase and the money the men got really mad. One of them punched Caesar. I waited for him to knock them out, but he didn’t do anything, even when they hit him again and again.

     I was unable to get back to my room with them standing there because they would see me. I had to wait until they either left or went into the office. But they didn’t go anywhere. They began to count the money packets. When they finished, they looked at Caesar, and he started crying. I didn’t believe it. He was so tough and here he was blubbering like a baby.

     I thought they might go into the office and then I could sneak away, but about then my stepfather came wandering back from the blacked-out rooms. He still hadn’t figured out that the circuit breakers needed resetting. Everything was going wrong with my plan.

     The men called my stepfather over to them. When he saw Caesar crying, he asked what the hell was going on. One of the men pulled out a big pistol and told him to open the door to Room Number Eight. My stepfather swore, but he took out his master key and all four of them walked to the room. After my stepfather opened the door, they went inside. This was my chance.

     First I went back to my room and turned off my lights so they would think I wasn’t home. Then I went to the electrical room and reset the circuit breakers so at least the guests wouldn’t come out of their rooms and confuse things even more. I guess it didn’t matter, though, because my plan to frame my stepfather was ruined now. I couldn’t think of any way to get them to look for the money in the register.

     But when I came out of the electrical room, I saw the four of them go into the office. I might have one more chance to frame my stepfather, but I would have to improvise even more.

     They had left the door to Room Number Eight open, so I peeked inside. The guest was still laying on the bed unconscious, but just in case I tiptoed across the room to his phone and dialed 911. When a policeman answered, I didn’t even try to talk to him. No one ever understands me over the telephone. I just left the phone off the hook--the 911 people can trace calls and tell where they came from. I wiped my fingerprints from the phone and the door and left the room.

     I wanted to wait around to see the police come, but I was afraid they would question me, especially if they found dye- stained clothes in my room. So I went back to my room and put the clothes and the rubber gloves in a plastic bag and went to the movies. On the way there, I threw the bag with the gloves and clothes into a dumpster.

     I watched two movies that night, like I do on a lot of Friday nights. You’re not supposed to stay for the second one without paying, but the people who work there know me and always let me stay to see another movie without paying.

     When I returned to the motel, the parking lot was full of police cars. There must have been at least twenty of them, all with their lights flashing. One of the policemen started asking me questions, but he didn’t understand my answers. I was getting excited and scared and that made it even harder to understand me. Then I saw Mrs. Moore, one of the cleaning ladies, going into the office. Mrs. Moore lived down the street and she and her husband were always nice to me. I ran over to her, but the policeman chased me.

     I got to her before the policeman caught me and held onto her. She yelled at him for scaring me and told me not to worry. She explained to the policemen in the office that my father was one of the men who was shot. I looked around and saw my stepfather, Caesar, and one of the two men lying on the floor. I tried to tell everyone that he was my stepfather, not my father, but I was so excited that no one, not even Mrs. Moore, understood what I was saying. I kept yelling over and over that he wasn’t my father, while Mrs. Moore hugged me and said it would be all right. The policemen didn’t ask me any more questions after that.

     It took a week before I found out how bad my plan really was. The man in Room Number Eight was dead from an overdose of sleeping pills. My stepfather and Caesar were dead, shot by the two men who had visited the man in Number Eight. And one of those two men was dead, shot by the police. The other one gave up so he wouldn’t get shot, too.

     I felt terrible about the man in Number Eight and his two visitors, but I found out that they were drug dealers. They thought my stepfather and Caesar had tried to rob them of their drug money. The police searched the office and found the money hidden in the cash register.

     My plan had messed everything up real bad. Everyone thought that my stepfather and Caesar were part of the drug dealer gang, so they never got framed for stealing. But since they were killed, I guess it doesn’t matter.

     The police searched the motel for two whole days, especially the office and Room Number Eight, because the man who gave up instead of getting shot said there was a hundred and eighty thousand dollars missing--nine packages of twenty thousand dollars. The newspapers said the police kept the money, but I know they didn’t. The money is in my paint can.

     I’m going to use it to finish my father’s dream.