Loose Ends
Amos Gunner
Published by Amos Gunner
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Amos Gunner
CHARACTERS
ZEKE introduces himself to his cellmate
BOBBY reviews his life before it ends
So does ADAM
So does SAMPSON
BRENDA addresses an AA meeting, the police
DALE justifies himself to the police
CHAPTER 1: ZEKE
What version do you want, short or long? Short goes: I broke a lot of laws and got busted for some of them. But that’s not my story. It belongs to everyone. Well, almost. I should make an exception for the blind souls in our world who claim to be innocent and tell a different tale.
You are? Sorry.
Unless you can think of something better to do before dinner, why don’t I spin you my own story, which happens to be the long version?
In the beginning, the Lord created the heavens and earth in six days. Then he took a nap. Too long? Well, a shorter take goes: some night forty-eight years ago, my drunk dad neglected to pull out of my slut mom. Later, I was born.
Okay. Still too long. I’ll start with the day I shot this kid and take it from there.
In the morning, I paid a visit to my ex-partner, a gentleman named Gavin Quinn. He lent me his suit, a black Brooks Brothers thing. Felt as good as it looked. Should’ve taken a photo. Hm. This isn’t very interesting, is it?
Fast forward to Lucky’s Motel. Ever hear of it? Most people haven’t. It looks like a bombed-out slum and smells like an armpit. But it’s quiet and out of the way. Perfect for stings. I always had good luck there. Ha ha, right? Well, the place had an appropriate name as far I was concerned.
So I’m there posing as a traveling businessman itching to buy some blow, ten ounces if I remember correctly. We want to build a case against this wannabe gangster and the transaction’s meant to be the first brick. Well, there’s more to it than that but I don’t want to overwhelm you with information so early in my story.
A scrawny, dopey college kid we called Digit, he sets up a mic in the lamp and a digital clock on the nightstand. But the clock’s really a camera, dig? And it’s only good as a camera because the lab geniuses had crossed the wrong wires and the thing gave the time as zero-zero o’ clock. Digit asks if the glitch worried me and I go, “No. I’m worried I’m gonna sweat so much I’ll end up looking like you.”
Digit laughs. He might’ve been stoned. He yells to Sutler, who’s observing me in action through from the next room over. The department must’ve set aside all the good equipment to bust a senator or something. Yeah, why did Digit yell to Sutler when there was a mic in the room? I dunno. But he does. Yells at him to bang on the wall if the image is okay. I hear these wussy taps.
Oh, Adam Sutler. How can I introduce that dead subject? To call him a mother fucker is an insult to incest. When I think about the honors they bestowed on that boob, I get sick. I mean, I once wasted a few minutes regretting his death, but I never got to the point of wanting to honor him, for the simple fact he was never honorable. He wasn’t actively evil either. Most of the time he was just there, inert. But he’ll have to butt into my story now and then. No way around it. After all, he was my new partner, a total rookie to narcotics. For now let’s just say he represents my opposite and leave his character description at that.
So Digit packs up his equipment and I tell him if he wants to be useful, he’ll fix the air conditioner. I’d been twisting and pulling that ancient contraption but all I got it to do was cough up some lukewarm dust. I give it a kick to teach it a lesson, then try the window, but it won’t open past an inch. Man, if someone wants to jump out a window, that’s their deal. If someone gets thrown out, they probably deserve it. But no. The rest of us have to suffer. Am I right?
Digit takes this as in invitation to jabber about the weather, how it’s hot today but was freezing the day before, blah blah. Throws out that line, “If you don’t like the weather in Columbus, wait five minutes and it’ll change.” Now, I’m a good liar, but not good enough to act like I’m the least bit amused by his witless chatter. At the door he tells me good luck and I say I don’t need any and he goes, “Then I take it back.”
So I have ten minutes or so before the curtain goes up and my one obligation is to take care of the clock. I haven’t come up with a way to knock out the mic, which makes me a little nervous. But just a little. Worse comes to worse, I figure I’ll clearly say, “Whoa, mister. Put the gun away. I’m with the police.”
I light a cigarette. I check the window and rub the tweed curtains. The stench from a thousand scum guests clings to my fingers. In the bathroom, I’m sort of transfixed by this trippy black mildew design on the floor tiles. Looks like Michelangelo or Andy Warhol or whoever had spilled a bottle of ink. I run water over my fingers. The soap dish is empty. I’m afraid to touch the towels so I shake my hand. In the mirror, I watch myself blow smoke from my nostrils. It looks like I have thick, menacing tusks growing from my face for a few seconds, but then they break apart. A thumb nail of ash scatters down Gavin’s suit. I try to clean it off, but I end up working the ash into the fabric. Never was good at cleaning. I take a few more puffs and toss the butt into the crapper.
Because I’m trying to paint a picture, okay? I’m shitting out a silk thread for you, man. What, you got a hot date? Gotta cast a crucial vote at the UN? Might as well listen. We aren’t going anywhere.
So I come out and the wallpaper catches my eye. It’s off. I mean, besides the fact it’s been stained to a light brown. I puzzle out the fuck-up in no time--the dainty flower heads are pointing to the carpet. Can you imagine the overworked, underpaid moron who hung it upside down? Just takes a moment of inattention to ruin something forever. Well, I’m sharper than he was. I’m sharp and I’m ready.
I open the leather satchel and stuff my head inside. Have you ever smelled a ton of money? You have? Sweet, isn’t it? Has a slight earthy afterscent. You know--like “aftertaste.” Anyway, they oughta bottle that fragrance.
One could argue my best move would’ve been to grab the satchel and make a mad dash for the border. Maybe this is the point I messed up, when I had a clean escape route and didn’t recognize it, didn’t take it.
Well, no regrets. A regret’s like an appendix--totally useless and it can swell with puss and kill you unless you cut out. Besides, I eventually earned a reservation in heaven. From that angle, I’d be a fool and a sinner to regret one second of my entire life.
I closed the satchel and went for the clock.
CHAPTER 2: BOBBY
In my heart? He shot me through my heart.
Darryl and I to the motel. His bullet in my heart, and Darryl and I are walking to the motel.
It’s not like watching a movie. It’s like remembering a movie. It’s like remembering a movie in order but also at once, the voice in my head on the soundtrack. The I. The I cannot die. I’m not dead. I’m dying. Am I? Whatever’s happening, it’s not flashing before my eyes. They lied. Before my eyes, everything’s going blurry.
The sun was cooking the litter, and the heat and the stink kept nearly everyone inside. Darryl was hungover and quiet.
The school had air conditioning. The school had friends, at least Wendy. It was Darryl’s fault I wasn’t there. I don’t mind saying that. Even now.
He trailed me. “Shouldn’t be this hot.”
I waited for him to catch up.
He swung the black duffle bag over his shoulder. “How’s come no one offered us a ride. That’s some rude ass shit.”
We walked on. “You still don’t get it. This is a test.” He was behind me already.
“I know.”
“So of course we’re not getting a ride. Thanks to our promotion, we can expect less help.”
Besides, when did we ever get a ride, Darryl? We knew the COTA routes like we knew our way around our apartment.
He said, “Duh,” but he didn’t get it. Not really. “Whatever. No biggie. Cooper brothers unstoppable. Slow down.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you pulled up your pants and walked normal.”
“I walk normal.”
“You walk like a mo-fo gangsta.”
“I am a mo-fo gangsta. It’s the bag.”
“You got me into this, you have to carry it.”
“Whatever.”
He didn’t get it. I don’t think he got very much. I know I didn’t. There’s a logic bigger than my own that I could never follow. Maybe now it’ll all spread out before me and I’ll be able to make sense of it, if only once. Is this why this is happening? A parting gift from life? The last chance to get it?
I stopped in front of a payday advance place. An old lady in leopard print tights was giving heck to the cashier. I wondered if the sad girl’s job was worse than ours. Our job was as meaningless and unfulfilling as that girl’s must’ve been. We had to deal with jerk customers, too. But our boss was crazy. Hers was most likely just mean. And even between Darryl and me, we didn’t earn enough to help out Mom. She works two jobs without any support from dad. Not fair. The paydays wouldn’t let me be the man he never was. If I ever had any romantic illusions about the job, actually doing it snuffed them out. I decided the girl had it better. Now I’m sure of it. She got to work behind bullet proof glass.
“What you looking at?”
We walked on. “Nothing.”
Darryl leaned back and looked inside the store. “That ho? Wendy not doing it for you anymore?”
“Watch it.”
“You hit that shit yet?”
“You don’t hit a girl.”
“That ain’t-- Man, you will never be cool.”
Yep. Point for Darryl.
Three blocks away, he stopped and leaned against a brick wall.
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
He looked like it. So pitiful, I didn’t give him crap about drinking with the boys, even though that was what made him sick.
“It’ll be okay. We’re almost there.”
“Why don’t we quit?”
“And go back to school?”
“No. You did good in school. Not me. I was thinking McDonald’s. Suppose Marcus’ll give us a good reference?”
I thought that was funny. I still do.
“We’d make more.”
“Nah. Know how much Sampson makes?”
“No. Neither do you. Besides, you’re fourteen. How many years you want to wait to be second-in-command?”
He thought about it. Or didn’t. The color returned to his face. He pushed himself from the wall and we walked on.
“Know what Marcus’ first words were? ‘Fuck you, ma.’ Swear.”
I get that Marcus is a legend with the crew and I get how stories grow up around legends. It helps that Marcus stays locked in his office all the time and sends messages into the world through Sampson. Makes him more mysterious. But the stuff the guys tell each other and sometimes believe is amazing to me. Like, the one about how Marcus chewed off his sister’s ear because he worried her earrings made her look easy. Never happened. Or how he cut off a debtor’s foot; how Marcus decapitated the car dealer who sold him a lemon; how he killed this woman and her kid and then burned them in a warehouse for I don’t know what reason. Sick stuff out of slasher movies. Except unlike those movies, the stories were all kind of plausible. Lies, sure, but not the worst lies I ever heard.
We were getting close. Darryl moaned about the heat again. I told him to take off his cap.
“You don’t like the Reds anymore?”
“It keeps the heat in. You’ll stay cooler if you take it off.”
“You learn that in school?”
“Doesn’t matter. What if I learned it from a show? Thing is, it’s true.”
He took it off and tested the difference. “Can’t tell me what to do.” He put it back on.
The sign for Lucky’s Motel loomed ahead. We didn’t speak the rest of the way.
I should’ve said something. I don’t know what. Maybe I should’ve admitted I was scared. I bet he was scared too. Or maybe I should’ve told him I loved him. He’d come back with a joke but that would’ve been okay. I loved him for his jokes.
I remember how I said it once, years ago. All I wanted for Christmas was a skateboard because everyone else had one. Darryl bought one for me. Mom told me he had shoveled snow in front of a few businesses near our place. I’m sure they didn’t pay him much but he was determined and shoveled a bunch. I unwrapped the skateboard and got so excited I told him I loved him. He smiled so wide it stretched his face and he had to squint. I think. Mom cried, I remember. I had to wait till it got warmer before I could use the skateboard, but even then there weren’t many places I could skate. I wasn’t very good. I hurt myself a lot. I blamed the skateboard, which must’ve been the cheapest one on the market. I can’t remember what happened to it.
So I said it once, but maybe I should’ve said it again.
CHAPTER 3: ADAM
Now I see. I can’t, but I do. Zeke’s now in color, no longer a grainy black and white shade.
Lieutenant Marner told me to watch. That was his order. Watch and learn. I couldn’t have watched any better. My nose was an inch from the black and white monitor, my ears wrapped in the headphones. The learning, though, that’s what I botched, that’s why I’m dying.
Digit skimmed a surfing magazine. His shirt read, “I Got Lucky in Kentucky.” I wore my short sleeve powder blue button up and creased khakis.
I don’t want to remember this. Why can’t I spend the last of my life holding on to the first time I kissed Brenda? Try.
Zeke image swelled on the monitor as he approached the camera. He picked up the clock and his image jiggled.
Can’t control it. It is before my eyes, like they said. But it’s not my whole life? Just this week? The worst week of my life?
Zeke brought the camera close to his mouth and spoke. I couldn’t hear a word. I asked Digit what was wrong. He closed the magazine and tapped his headphones. He cranked the dial on the receiver. Hiss roared, but I still couldn’t anything from the other room. Digit fiddled with the wires, then banged on the receiver. I banged also. He batted my hand away.
“Don’t do that.”
“Sorry.”
Bit I didn’t turn from the monitor, didn’t stray from my orders.
Zeke seemed to be repeating the same words, the same sentence. I asked Digit to decipher Zeke’s message.
Digit pulled a cord from the back of the receiver and plugged it back in. “I don’t read lips dude.”
“Want to take a shot?”
Digit, easily exasperated like most people his age and younger, sighed, but donated a moment of his time to carefully study the monitor anyway. “I don’t know. Eye fawned Euro wave?”
“I fought your wife?”
“I fucked or weighed?”
I still have no good idea. My idea is not good.
I turned to Digit for a second, just a second, and asked if I should go over. He shrugged. I looked back.
“Gotcha.” Zeke’s laugh, loud and distorted, exploded in my ears. My hands cupped the headphones. The image shook.
Digit adjusted the receiver. “Bastard.”
“So everything’s working?”
“Yeah. Everything but his brain.” Digit picked up his magazine and leaned out of my periphery. “I’m not laughing. Are you?”
Zeke set down the clock and the image stabilized. It pointed toward the curtains.
“Look. It’s all wrong. What do we do?”
Hard knocks from Zeke’s room thwarted Digit from answering.
I pulled closer to the screen. My nose brushed against the glass. The door opened. A young voice: “Cop!” I felt the vibrations from a thud through my shoes.
Then, nothing.
I watched the curtains. “Well?”
“Well what?”
I tapped my thumb against my thigh. The end had begun, and I tapped my thumb against my thigh.
Watch and learn. Lieutenant Marner was explicit. He gave an order. I had to obey orders. If I dismissed them, I could expect punishment.
And then, I asked myself the most side-splitting question I had ever put forth in my life, possibly the most riotous question ever posed by anyone. “What if Zeke needs my help?”
I threw off the headphones and launched from my seat. In the hallway, I heard the first gunshot. In the lobby, the second. Past the front door, in the middle of the street, the splayed body of a young man, face down, a black duffle bag by his right hand, a wet crimson circle on the back of his white t-shirt. It looked like a stop light.
Zeke stood over the body. He pointed his smoking gun to the motel and yelled at me to call it in.
The old man emerged from behind the front desk as I passed and asked me, “Is everything okay?”
CHAPTER 4: BOBBY
My brain shut down and I ran. Later, much later, when I was close to Conrad’s, a destination I hadn’t even consciously aimed for, I slowed to a jog. I tasted bitter bile and the eggs I had for breakfast.
I landed on the bench in front of the bar and sucked in gales of air. That got my brain ticking a little. I made a plan: tell Sampson what happened, quit the job, start over and build a normal life. I’d never even think about jaywalking ever again.
I stood. My legs didn’t want to carry my weight. If I could feel them now, they’d still be sore. I wobbled to the door and looked in. I saw my reflection.
Inside, I had to hang out in the doorway until my eyes adjusted to the black. During the day, I think the night hangs out at Conrad’s until it’s time to do its thing. The tables, four small, wobbly tables made out of splinters, came into focus. Lucas shot me a glance from behind the bar sparsely stocked with watered down bottles, then went back to his newspaper. Never saw him serve a drink. Then again, never saw a customer. Why didn’t Marcus call his place Go Away?
I made out Sampson’s beanpole frame in the shadows, back at the pool table. I don’t want to know what favor he must’ve done for Marcus to allow a pool table. But before I saw Sampson, I heard Benny’s evil cackle.
Benny’s killed people. But he’s killed because he wanted to, not because he was pressured. I know. But even if I didn’t know, his dead eyes would’ve given him away. He’s crossed the line and proudly wore the mark of a killer like it was his birthright.
I went behind the bar. Lucas, engrossed in his crossword puzzle, wasn’t going to budge and didn’t indicate he noticed me reach around him and get some water. I emptied the glass in two gulps. I heard the click of the cue ball followed by a thunk. Sampson laughed. I put the glass in the sink and went over.
Sampson nodded to me. “I need the nine and eight. Benny needs a miracle.” He lined up the shot, steadied his cue and completely missed.
“You’re bad luck, kid.” Yeah. Me. Not the frayed and warped table. “Where’s Darryl?”
“We need to talk.”
Benny aimed for one of his striped balls. He sunk the eight. “Man, these sticks curl like my pubes. Let’s go again. I’ll kick your ass.”
Sampson chalked up. “Man, you suck.”
Benny revealed his gold tooth. “Suck like your mom.”
“That’s Marcus’ sister.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Whatever. Total’s now two twenty-five.” Sampson puffed on his stick, making a light blue cloud. “Talk about what?”
“I’m getting a refill.” Benny left for the bar. In the entire time I knew him, he never said one word to me. He didn’t know he was doing me a favor.
“Get me a Coke,” Sampson said.
“No.”
Sampson circled the table and emptied the pockets. “Talk about what?”
“The cop.”
Sampson squeezed the ball in his hand. “Let’s see Marcus.”
“Let me tell you what happened and you can tell Marcus.”
“That ain’t the way it works.” He bowled the ball down the table. It hit the lip of the pocket and rolled to the middle.
I followed Sampson through the empty kitchen to the staircase. Halfway down, he stopped and turned to me.
“I stuck my neck out for your ass.” He said it quiet but angry, like a hiss. “Don’t get it chopped off.”
“You set up the bad deal you insensitive jerk. Wanted to see if we could step up? Well, you got my brother shot. Ended his life and ruined mine. Apologize or I’ll beat you in front of your mom.”
I wish I had said that.
At the bottom of the staircase, Sampson knocked on the door. Silence. He knocked again.
“Damn it. What?” A big voice for a big man. But a deep voice for a shallow man. Nothing makes sense.
I followed Sampson inside.
The side walls of the office were lost in darkness. The desk lamp made a bubble of weak light in the black space. I think if you step out of the bubble you fall off the earth. The bubble held Marcus’ upper half behind his desk and a framed poster of some famous painting on the brick wall behind him.
He held up a book and asked Sampson if he’d ever read it.
“No.”
“That’s what I thought. You?”
I came out from behind Sampson and leaned in and squinted.
“Huck Finn. The Adventures of. No? They don’t make you read this in school? It’s good. I recommend it. Go buy a copy. Can’t be hard to find. Sampson, know what it’s about?”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
“Okay. But do you know what it’s about?”
“No.”
“It’s about two hundred and fifty pages. What do you care? Illiterate.” He tossed the book on his desk and folded his fat hands. “When will you learn? Takes more than money to get their respect. Now, what do you want?”
Sampson stepped on the edge of the bubble of light.
Marcus’ gaze, as heavy as his fist. But there had to be a way to tell him, a version so sad that he’d break character to weep and hug me. But I couldn’t tell that version. I couldn’t tell him anything. I opened my mouth but my heart beat against my throat and nothing came out.
Marcus looked to my left. “This kid mute? And I thought you were the dumb one.”
Then it rushed out of me. “It was a set up. They were cops. We ran. They shot Darryl.”
“Son of a bitch.” On “bitch,” Marcus hammered his desk. The light fluttered. “Sampson, who made the contact? Was it Rebus Jefferson? Son of a bitch.” I could barely hear him add, “Need that money, too.”
“Darryl?” Sampson stood five feet from me, but I could barely see him. He looked like a ghost.
“Dead.” That was the first time I said it. It was the first time I thought it. It hurt. It hurts.
“Oh my God.”
Marcus leaned in. “You’re sure they was cops?”
“Darryl knew.”
“How many?”
“One.”
“One?”
I nodded.
“So where’s the shit?”
“What shit?”
Marcus’ chest expanded, then deflated as he yelled, “Don’t play me boy.” His voice bounced around the room, so there must’ve been walls on the side after all. That was somehow reassuring.
I stammered out Darryl had carried the bag and I guessed the cops had it.
Marcus caught my eyes and peered into them and through them, reached into my skull to search behind my guess for a more acceptable answer that I might be hiding. I took in small bursts of air to keep myself alive.
Sampson stepped into the light. “Marcus, the kid doesn’t have the shit if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Oh, you know?” Marcus said it to Sampson without letting me go. “Like you knew they was cops?”
“I swear I’m gonna personally take care of Rebus.”
Marcus broke his stare. I tried hard not to crash to the cement floor. He reclined and looked up. “Lemme tell a story.” He brushed the sleeve of his black suit.
“Long time ago, there was this heavy bruiser named Hannibal. He trained a herd of elephants to attack the enemy. Trained ’em for months. But when the battle came, the elephants squashed Hannibal’s own men.
“See, back in the day, something similar happened. Some kid, young and dumb, tells me he was jacked by the heat. Not busted. Jacked. I should’ve fired him right away. But I say, ‘Okay. We’ll eat the loss and poke around. Bust some heads if we find the right heads to bust.’ But we didn’t find none and I shrugged it off. Kid got jacked a few more times. Strange, huh? Sure enough, I find out the little shit’s selling on the side. I was pretty displeased with him as you can imagine, but I was more upset with myself for letting him get away with it even once. I made a vow. That shit ain’t gonna happen again. Never. I worked too damn hard.”
Marcus swiveled his chair to face the wall. “Samson, you wasn’t there. All’s you know is you send the kid out with some coke, he comes back empty handed. That’s all you know. I’ll deal with you later.”
My legs shook. They couldn’t support both the running and the fear. Getting shot at is scary but Marcus is worse. He’s short but big, like a thunderstorm raging in a small balloon. I’d rather dodge cop bullets all day than spend five minutes with Marcus. I don’t know how Sampson could handle so much Marcus. Being the nephew didn’t matter. Marcus would chop off his nephew’s head as soon as anyone’s.
“The kid didn’t do anything.”
Marcus swiveled back to us and stood, rising above the bubble and decapitated by the dark.
“Fuck that. The scales of justice have been thrown out of whack. How can we balance them, here, among ourselves? How’s this?” He pointed his thick index finger at me. “You owe me either the three thousand or the coke. You’re choice, although I’d prefer the money. You owe it right now of course, but I’ll give you till Friday. Today’s Monday. Best hustle.”
Sampson stepped up to Marcus’ desk. He had no fear or else no brains. “All because someone ripped you off a long time ago?”
“We’re all paying for someone else’s sins. Besides, I’m only asking for what’s mine. We’re done. You can leave.”
At the bar, Sampson poured two shots of something clear. “This is just some shoot the messenger shit. Don’t sweat it.” He slammed both shots and coughed.
I opened the front door and the sun blinded me. I stood awhile until my vision returned. I staggered to the bench, then my legs gave out. Sampson sat beside me and told me not to worry, sounding worried.
“It seems like you’re in trouble too. Sorry.”
I can’t believe I said that. Embarrassing. I take it back. Screw him.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “It’s my fault.” It was. Good. At least admit it. “You weren’t ready.” To be set up? “I shouldn’t have trusted Rebus Jefferson.” No kidding. “And it sucks about Darryl.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Look. Cops’ll find out who you are if they haven’t already. Better not go home.”
At that exact moment the cops were breaking the news to mom. Then I bet they asked her questions. She cried but she did her best to answer. After they left, she called my cell. I forgot it at home. I don’t know why. I just did. It rang in our room. She walked down the hall and looked in and saw Darryl’s stuff and it hurt to see all the stuff that Darryl will never need again. She won’t go in again for along time. I can’t think about it. Not even now.
“Wait here.”
Like I had a choice, like I could’ve gone anywhere. I made a list of people who could help and places I could go and crossed out the possibilities one by one. First of all, I hated everyone in the crew to different degrees and would rather sleep in a dumpster. It was never a gang. We never had each other’s back. We were employees. That’s all. No reason to expect anything from any of them.
There was Wendy, but there was no way her parents would let me stay over. A few relatives, but none in Columbus. My cousins in Illinois were worse off than me. Dad’s crazy sister in Nebraska or somewhere like that? Never. Then I remembered my mom’s brother in Florida. Rick. Only met him once. He was nice and he always sent Darryl and me a Christmas card with a twenty in it. I should’ve moved in with him months ago. My dad? He might be dead for all I know. Anyway, he’s dead to me.
Sampson came back and took a key off a giant key ring. He told me where an apartment was and made me repeat the address until I proved to him I had it memorized.
“Can’t I just stay with you?”
“No.” He handed me the key. “This place recently became available. You can stay for two weeks, I think. After that, might get complicated. Look, stand like a man, it’ll all be cool.”
Liar. At least the key felt solid and firm.
CHAPTER 5: ZEKE
Some pansy in blue worked crowd control. Least he tried. The small crowd didn’t pay him much mind. I pushed him aside and barked at the rubberneckers to go home or go get a job. Nothing to see. A few losers stayed on but I dispersed most of the crowd. Slapped him on the back and told him that’s how it’s done.
Homicide pulls up in the shape of Evan Gruber. Homicide’s presence on the scene was nothing but a formality, a hack’s gig, and Gruber hated my guts anyway, so he was a real sour-faced son of a bitch. His job was to ask a few questions, fill out some paper work, then kick the mess up. He thought he was above the chore.
He saw me but pretended he didn’t and made a beeline through cops and medics and zeroed in on Sutler sitting on the motel steps holding his head in his hands. Gruber tapped him on the shoulder and Sutler lifted his empty melon. His face was pale except for his red eyes. He gripped Gruber’s arm for some reason.
Man, Sutler sure as shit didn’t look like a narcotics detective. Problem was, he didn’t act like one either. If there’s one thing Gruber and I have in common, it’s the belief that cops should act like fucking cops, y’know? You develop a swagger when you become a cop, a true cop. It’s not because you’re too big for your britches. After awhile, it just becomes natural to walk that way. Sutler never developed the swagger, so part of me always forgot he wasn’t a civilian. After a few minutes in conversation, it looked like it slipped Gruber’s mind too.
He worked a stick of gum while interviewing Sutler, jotting down some answers and rolling his eyes at all of them. I made my way over. Closer, I caught Adam say, “I think there were two suspects.”
“You think? I doubt it.” Gruber snapped his gum.
I slap him on the back and call him a bloodhound. He calls me a sharpshooter. He asks for a statement and I give him one: perps come, flee, I chase. One pulls a gun, I shoot. The end. He takes none of this down. He shouts over to some CSU guy, asks if they recovered a weapon. Nope. Gruber fakes a yawn and says I’ll be the grand jury’s problem soon enough. Sutler about shits. Don’t know how you don’t see that coming. A grand jury, I mean. The pants shitting, too, for that matter.
Gruber’s too happy to tell us we’ve been summoned by our lieutenant. Well duh. No reason to make it sound threatening. But Adams voice turns rickety. “Now?”
Gruber’s like, “No. Why don’t you stop by the beauty shop first and get your nails done.” Such bitter words from so fresh a breath.
I pat Adam on the back and tell Gruber to go fuck himself. He gives me a lame-ass Clint Eastwood impression, then struts over to the ambulance, to go fuck himself for all I know.
Adam’s not sure why my hand’s gently resting on his back. Well, up till then, the nicest I’d been to Sutler was when I apologized for calling him a douchebag. Actually, what I said was, “You’re not a douchebag. A douchebag’s useful.” But no more lowdown jabs, even if he deserved every one. From then on, damn it, I’m going to bite my tongue and Sutler was going to be my new best friend. The foulest pile of shit I ever had to eat, but necessary.
As we drive back the station, I go on about how what a prick Gruber is. A kid just bit it and this dickhead detective lobs fucking insults at us? Meanwhile, I’m secretly thanking Gruber for being a prick so’s to give me a means to be nice to Sutler. The day was packed wit new experiences. Adam bites and joins the attack. By the time we pull into the parking lot, he’s telling me we need to stick together if we’re going to pull through and how he won’t let me down. Shit, like shooting water in a barrel.
Lieutenant Marner’s office was freezing. A giant air duct over his desk poured out sub zero winds, way overcompensating for the heat outside. Adam fidgeted with his legs on a chair in front of Marner’s desk and, like he forgot how to sit. I stood steeled, my arms folded.
Marner never liked me too much no matter what I did. Me and Gavin Quinn, we were together for years and Marner hated every second of it. It’s not that we caused all sorts of hell on the streets. Well, at first we did. Then Quinn sorta mellowed. But that pissed Marner too. Quinn calculated how few hours we could put in and still keep our jobs, and Marner couldn’t decide which was worse: our pep or our sloth. Marner’s discipline for our laziness amounted to a chew out given a few times a year. After a reaming, we’d go out and snare a few small bunnies, then go back to slacking till the next chew out.
That’s why everyone’s been pretty cool to me here, considering. Mostly, I was never really a cop, y’know? I never really gave a shit and I went easy on a lot of folks. When I was a kid, I always said I was either gonna be a cop or a criminal, and the cops had the better dental plan.
Whatever. The job was a joke. I mean, for every lame we bust, there’s a hundred more to take his place. Trying to reduce crime’s like trying to empty water from a leaky boat. You never get the boat dry. You just try to stay afloat.
But then Quinn retired and screwed up my cushy life. He had to quit. Stomach cancer. Marner thought I had a good cop in me dying to come out, and now with Quinn gone, it just needed a push. Told me he was getting this new kid, Sutler, who looked to be a real straight pisser. Said Sutler was going to midwife the good cop inside me. Right.
Okay, so I’m standing there and Marner looks like he wants to kill me. “Nice suit,” he says. “Almost makes you professional.” Then he leans back in his chair and says, “Mea culpa.”
Adam wags his tail and says, “Oh, that’s a Catholic thing.”
Marner’s not impressed. Ignores him and says, “It means--”
And Adam interrupts him. Says, “It means ‘my fault.’”
Marner makes it plain he’s not impressed. Adam gets hangdog and shuts up. Also, he finally gets some control over his legs and sits perfectly still. Marner goes on and says, “No. It means ‘I honest-to-God truly fucked up.’” He lists all these mistakes he made: let me work in a place I worked before, almost alone, no backup, no street presence, minimal surveillance. He let it all happen and he’s fessing up.
The case against Marcus is kaput. That’s a given. From my rat to Sampson to Marcus to the sellers, too much plausible deniability’s been built up to let any charge stick. The plan was to get closer and closer till we had Marcus dangling on our hook. As it stands, we barely drop the pole in the water before we have to pull it out and pack it away.
Marner hopes I’m gonna step up and say, “Ah, poor lieutenant. Don’t say that. It was all my fault.” Nope. I’m like, “Well, I know I didn’t mess up, so...”
He’s not having it. Says his fuck up doesn’t erase my fuck up. Says it wasn’t just him or just me. We both shoulder the blame. He liked to play that game. He’d be, like, either/or? Then you’d choose, and he’d say, “Nope. It’s both.” One of his pathetic power trips.
“Damn it. If the kid was just a few years older.” The age, that’s the one little number that’s making the department sweat, but that’s the one detail that can’t be laid on either one of us. No, the blame for that belongs elsewhere: to Marcus for sending the kid out, the kid himself for hooking up with Marcus, the kid’s mom for not having got knocked up sooner. Fate.
Still, in spite of that, I’m put in the position of having to defend myself, which is pretty easy. I have no idea how the kid knew I was a cop. He pulled a gun on me. I could go on, but Marner holds up his hand and cuts me off. Tells me to type it up and go home. Tells me I have to meet with IA the next day.
Let me pause here. Whenever there’s a police related shooting, a grand jury is convened. But this takes a long time, months sometimes, and it was decided from on high to have Internal Affairs investigate the shooting right away to appease any crabby, noisy citizens before they make a public stink and I’m boring myself talking about this.
So, IA. And I have to make an appointment to see a shrink. Adam’s like, “Me too?” Marner looked like he could’ve used some time on the couch himself.
See, Marner’s third generation on the force. The job was in his blood but you could tell he wanted a transfusion. Like that day, when he wasn’t staring me down or ignoring Adam, he’d sneak a peek at a calendar on his wall. I’ll wager my left one he was calculating when he could take a vacation.
In the department, like they say in the army, shit flows downstream. In the time since I pulled the trigger, his phone must’ve gone nuts with the shit dumping down on him from his superiors. Later on as Adam and I left, his phone rang and I swear I heard him groan, like it hurt him.
But, if shit goes downstream, authority goes up. You might be covered in shit, but you’re absolved of responsibility. Marner tells us he has no choice about IA or a shrink, and he has no choice but to put us on modified assignment. I bitch and moan but he says his hands are tied from on high. He requests our gun and badge. Adam’s are on the desk in the time it takes him to say, “Yes sir.” I don’t budge. It’s bullshit and I say so. I say, “Don’t do anything until--”
“Until IA says you stink?”
Ouch. Well, I know all this is fair. I didn’t expect anything different, but I’m sure you follow why I grumble, why I make this big show about turning in the only things that make being a cop worthwhile. He keeps cool, which must be easy when it’s nearly snowing in his office.
Adam wants more info on the modified assignment. Idiot. There isn’t one, dig? It’s a fancy trick to keep us off the streets without putting us under suspension. Marner tells Adam to go ahead and make other plans.
Last thing he says to us is, “No press.” He sits up to say it and he repeats it over and over. “No press. No press. No press.” Like I said, his phone rings as we leave. Poor Marner. Seriously. Struggling at a job he hates, like so many others. Too many others. I grieve for them all. They should be working on their soul, not selling it.
I tell Adam we’re grabbing some coffee at the place around the corner. He says we have to write our reports. I’m like, “Are you eager to write the report right now?” He says, “Let’s get some coffee.”
At the shop, he’s dreadful and glum. Glazed eyes aimed out the window, into nowhere. Hand plopped by his coffee cup like he has no intention of picking it or anything else up again. “Should’ve have happened,” he mumbles.
What you should appreciate is that cops are expected to protect and serve. They’re not supposed to shoot citizens or most times perps. Most cops never need to pull out their weapon, let alone fire it, let alone fire it into someone. And when it happens, it feels wrong. That’s why citizens get upset. But they’re not the only ones. After an incident, an eerie atmosphere descends on the department. Everyone speaks softer, moves slower. And the cop who kills never likes it, never likes himself, usually goes through years of therapy. And more than one cop’s taken their own life after they took another’s, even if the baddie deserved it.
So I have a pretty good idea how to act. “Right. Shouldn’t’ve happened.”
He nods oh so sadly. “You hit the nail on the head.”
By the way, can I tell you how much I hated Sutler’s clichés without sounding petty?
“And he shouldn’t’ve even been there,” I say. “Just a kid. Should’ve been in school. Become a doctor. Grow a family. All that stuff. Damn.”
I take off my tie. It’d been choking me all day and I was far past needing to pretend I was a businessman or whatever my cover was. And I don’t want the chick behind the counter, this hot young tight thing with curly brown hair, I didn’t want her to think I’m a square.
Right then, she’s counting the drawer, her luscious pink lips silently mouthing the numbers. Yummy. I fondle her with my eyes. She glances over. I wave with my three middle fingers. She goes back to the money, like I don’t even exist. Man, she has the air of indifference toward me that women fully satisfied with their current lover give off. I hate that.
The only other people in the place are these two old ladies across the room. One has blue hair. Do you think broads like that bother to check the mirror before they leave the house? Are they truly convinced they look presentable? Here’s what happens: they ask their husbands if they look okay and the husbands are so fucking bored answering that same question for the past fifty years they go, “Yes Myrtle,” and the poor deluded wives leave the house assuming if they still look good to their husbands after a few decades, they must look good enough to everyone else. Her friend at least seemed comfortable being old and disgusting. Didn’t make a pointless effort. I respect that. Though I wouldn’t fuck either one with my worst enemy’s dick.
And then there’s Sutler. He resembled a stunned animal. He asks if I think it’s a sin. I swear he once told me he was an atheist, like I used to be. Sinner that I was, I was so happy to find out he wasn’t a religious nut. I was under the impression that that was the one subject we could agree on. Where’s this sin stuff coming from, I ask? But he’s like, “No. I never said ‘atheist.’ I said I was a deist.” Whatever the hell that is.
Anyway, I answer that the shooting wasn’t a sin because it says in the bible, “Thou shall not murder.” People think it says, “Thou shall not kill,” but people are wrong. That’s the one part of the bible I had bothered to read. And I tell him it doesn’t matter what the bible says one way or the other because the bible was written by a pack of morons in sandals two thousand years ago. He’s amused at this. Prick.
Man, he saw himself as the hero, the ultimate good guy, the righteous guy. But he was just self-righteous, which ain’t the same. He always flapped his gums about doing good and saving people, but without God, how can you know what’s good and bad? And if you don’t know what’s bad, how can you save people from it? I hated him for certain reasons then and I hate him for different reasons now. Amazing. He was born to be hated.
I go back to playing Mr. Sensitive. “But sin or no sin, it’s awful.” I gently cover his hand with mine. My fingers are much bigger. I ask if he’s worried about the IA interview and his big brown eyes quiver. Don’t ask me how eyes quiver. Bastard made it happen.
I outline the typical IA interview: nothing bad, nothing probing. You tell your story, then they ask a few painless questions for the record. “It’s nothing. By the way, do you know what you’ll say?”
His puffs out his chest and he says, “I’ll tell them what I saw and that’s it.”
And what’d he see? What’s going in his report? He starts to hem and haw. Can’t get a complete word out. Finally admits he has no idea what he’ll say or what he’ll write in the report.
Oh, yes. I’ll be happy to help out. Anything for you, buddy. You’re my partner. And we must make sure we stay in touch through this ordeal. That’s important. I suggest dinner with his wife and me. I call her Linda. He corrects me and tells me it’s Brenda. He says she’s a good cook. Then he droops and says he has no idea how he’ll break the news to her, how it’ll devastate her.
Out the corner of my eye, I catch the girl at the counter looking my way. This gets my imagination flowing till I realize I’ve been holding Adam’s hand for way too long. I let go to stifle a fake yawn. “Let her read about it in the paper.” After I calm him down, I explain to Adam how a kid like that will get fifteen seconds of attention, tops. He believes me.
“Ready to tackle that paperwork, buddy?”
When he stands, the clumsy jackass knocks over his coffee cup. The lid flies off and the steaming brown liquid spreads across the table and spills on the floor. I jump back in enough time to save Gavin’s suit, but the tie’s ruined. I don’t get too upset. Just makes what I have to do that much easier.
The chick comes with a wad of washcloths. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon. I want to eat her up. But I can tell she’s eager to prance home to her big boyfriend so he can hold her tight while she bitches about tedious her day with the clumsy customers.
Adam’s apologetic and makes some cute, self-effacing remark, but I know I’m not getting anywhere with this bitch so I tell him, “Let’s get out of here. We got some real work to do.” I leave the sopping wet tie on the table and jet. Adam whimpers for me to wait but I don’t.
Outside the place, this hobo asks for change. Adam digs into his pocket but I say, “Change comes from within,” and lead Adam back to the station.
CHAPTER 6: BOBBY
I had five dollars in my pocket all morning, less after I paid the bus driver to drive me across the city. Older passengers shuffled off and young kids hopped on as the bus approached the OSU campus. Most played with electronic toys, except for these two girls talking fast and loud about a party they went to or were going to. I couldn’t tell.
Out the window, students shouldered thick bookbags as they hurried in and out of buildings and across lawns. We passed some dorm buildings I had been inside. They were always profitable and the customers were nice enough. They never invited Darryl and me to hang out though. And they weren’t impoverished. They bought more bags than I could ever afford. It’s a lie students don’t have money. The exact same painting of water or whatever that hangs in Marcus’ office hung on many dorm room walls next to posters of aliens and Bob Marley. I don’t know what it means.
Seven months ago, I was sure I’d be one of the students some day, like it was a given. Five months ago, the prospect became iffy. Now, I’ll never be one of them. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never be one of those spoiled rich idiots who’ll stumble through four years of expensive college so they can work a meaningless job they’ll hate. I missed out. Boo hoo.
I breathed easier when the bus reached the campus’ end. We passed shops and stores that rely on the students’ food, drug, and entertainment desires. The stores seemed so desperate for attention with big, bright signs, all promising the best deal on whatever they sold.
Then the shops gave way to houses and apartment buildings. The people on the street got fewer and older, walking with a hunched back, and less urgently and more depressed that the swarm of smiley kids a few miles back.
I got off and wandered until I found this two-story box. So quiet. I didn’t pass or even hear a single resident as I roamed, looking for this apartment.
I opened the door and a thick wall of heat fell on me. I pushed my way in and messed with the dial and buttons on the thermostat. Something behind the wall clicked and whirred and a cold draft flowed from the vents.
This u-shaped place has been give and take. Those three paintings on the living room wall are relaxing. Or could’ve been if I had been able to empty my mind enough to sit back and let the nature scenes work some serene magic on me. But those ducks in flight on the lampshades are corny kid’s stuff.
I turned right, into the kitchen. Well-stocked, but with none of my favorites. More give and take.
Through the kitchen, the bathroom. Small, but with a tub. And all the soaps and moisturizers I could want if I ever wanted any.
It’s not the apartment I’d pick for myself. The stranger’s tastes didn’t match my own. Not that there’s anything wrong with the apartment. In fact, there must be a million apartments that are personalized in the same was this one is, and that was comforting. It just wasn’t very cool.
But just when I felt safe, when I thought how this must be how normal people live so it must be okay, I opened the bedroom door. In the dim dusty light coming through the closed curtain, I made out a bare mattress on the bed. I opened the closet door. Empty. A small dresser was empty too. Nothing. I flipped on the light. There had to be more in the room I couldn’t see. There was. Is. A thin red line, a few inches long, streaked across the far wall. Scarier than a room drenched in red. I’ve tried to pretend it’s lipstick or ketchup. It’s never worked. The mark shouldn’t be there, but it was and it was there because of violence. No way to pretend away that fact. I killed the light and slammed the door, and I’ve never opened it again.
I went to the front door and gripped the doorknob. I couldn’t turn it. There was no point. Six billion people on Earth and I couldn’t go to any of them. I let go of the doorknob.
I looked over the living room again, this time with reigned eyes. I went to the stack of DVDs. Mostly chick flicks. It was very hard to tell if a man or a woman lived here. I saw signs for each.
I wiped a thin layer of dust from the top of the cable box. I sat on the couch. The TV angle was perfect and my body sank into the downy cushion. I had to stay, no way around it. As long as I physically and mentally avoided the bedroom, this place wasn’t so bad.
That clock, shaped like a fluffy cloud, the second hand taking days to move, said Wendy was home from school. I called and asked her to visit. She had to work. She asked a bunch of questions about my new apartment. I ignored them and promised I’d stop by. I washed my hands and face with soap that smelled like aloe, then picked a handful of quarters from a change jar in the living room. It must be nice to have so much money you can throw change in a jar and forget about it.
Ten feet from the stop, the bus pulled off. Twelve to fifteen minutes till the next one. An old woman holding two bags of groceries sat next to me on the bench and tried to make idle conversation, but I didn’t say much back. An “uh huh” or two seemed to satisfy her. By the time the bus arrived, my eyes were wet and heavy. A small headache was swelling behind my eyes. The driver opened his mouth to say something to me, but turned away. The bus was full. Everybody watched me try to find a seat. I told an older man with a walking cane between his legs to scoot over. After a moment, he did.
Wendy’s work shirt, bright yellow with a goofy cartoon chicken logo, didn’t look right on her. It never did. She knew it, too. She thinks she’s above it and maybe she is. Her parents told her to get good grades and she did. Then they forced her to get a job after school and keep her grades up and she did that too. She became more responsible, which is what they wanted, and she always had spare cash, which I’m sure they wanted too. But her commitments also made her depressed and sometimes a total bitch. Still, maybe her parents were on to something. I can’t deny they know how to forge a normal life out of whatever’s available. The entire neighborhood has that knowledge. They have more pride than money, but pride’s all they needed to turn a not-so-good part of the city into a pleasant turf to raise a family. Wonder where I’d be right now if any of them had been my parents.
She said, “Bobby, what is it?” like she already knew and just needed me to confirm it. On the couch, I laid my head on her shoulder, on a bone. I moved to a softer spot.
“Darryl’s dead.”
Brutal. Two short syllables riddled with hard d’s. She asked me to repeat them. I couldn’t. She asked how and when and I gave one word answers.
“But what happened?”
Weren’t one word answers enough? Why was she getting miffed? What more did she want? I wasn’t going to break tradition and discuss my job, so what did she want? “I don’t want to heard about it,” she said when we were on the same couch and again I was using her shoulder for a pillow and I told her Darryl got in. That’s how I put it. “He’s in.” Then a week later, again on the couch, again my head on her shoulder, I had to tell her, “I’m in.” Our whole relationship was spent with my head on her shoulder.
“I told you what happened,” I said.
Her shoulder tightened. I lifted off her and leaned back into the couch’s corner. Her shoulders relaxed. She was staring at the floor.
“Least it wasn’t you. God made the bullet miss you.”
Which means He made it hit Darryl? Wendy’s religion makes her say stupid things, mean things. “God’s plan.” That’s what she trusts when she’s stressed or hits a roadblock, when she wants to give up. A plan in the sky helps her with crap down here but it scared me because what she’s saying is God makes bad stuff happen. Wendy, what if God’s plan is a lifetime of suffering? Are you okay with that? Can you trust that plan?
“He’s with Jesus now.”
Yeah. They’re both dead.
Her body made a quick convulsion. A fat tear fell. I sat up and brushed it away. Or tried. I smeared it. She kissed my hand. It must’ve tasted yucky.
“Is that aloe?”
I described the apartment and everything in it, except for the bedroom which she wouldn’t want me to describe anyway. She dropped my hand.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-27 show above.)