Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  “Thank you,” she said, “I meant to turn some music on.” Her back was to me as she stood at the stove. I put one arm around her waist from behind, and passed a glass of wine over her shoulder. She took it after she stopped stirring something that smelled like lemon and garlic. She sipped and leaned back against me. “I missed you,” she said.

  “You too.”

  She rubbed the back of her head against my chest and chin.

  “Everything looks nice and smells amazing. You weren’t kidding about being a good cook.”

  “Thanks.” She seemed to be considering something, and asked, “Do men look in medicine cabinets?”

  “Nope, we like to preserve our illusions.”

  “That means I cleaned mine out for nothing.”

  “Men look at bookcases.”

  “And?”

  “Yes, we’re compatible, from a literary point of view.

  “And others?”

  “How’s the wine?”

  “Good, and I don’t care about the rules, I like red, and I like it with fish.”

  “Then I think we’re about perfect.”

  By unspoken consent, we stopped and sipped our wine. “Go sit down, I’ll be right out with dinner,” she said. The room was warm and welcoming. It looked like a comfortable place to sit and read, or listen to music. It was a great carpet to make love on.

  Dinner was as good as it had smelled. Scrod, in a garlic and lemon sauce, some kind of Indian rice and steamed vegetables. Wine to stroke it down, and make the conversation flow.

  When the last of the wine was gone, she took my hand, and led me into her bedroom. More modern prints on the walls, and a couple of lamps with simple shades. Over her bed, a good reading light was switched off. She was a reader. I had a similar lamp, and fought my loneliness with books. For her, and if I was honest, for me, the loneliness was a choice.

  She turned, and her dress whispered to the floor. Underneath she wore a skimpy push up bra, and a pair of silk and lace panties that held up lacy garters with stockings. She left the heels on. Her look searched my face for my reaction. I don’t know what it showed, but what I felt was raw lust. There was the desire to take charge in her manner. She pushed my jacket off of my shoulders, and undressed me.

  She had trouble with my belt and trousers, but I let her fiddle until they came loose. When my clothes were in a pile next to hers, she put one hand in the middle of my chest and pushed me gently onto her bed. In moments I was engulfed, drowning in her.

  Afterwards, I was trying to catch my breath when she turned to lie in the crook of my arm. She faced me directly and said, “You’re welcome.”

  “There’s no thanking you for that,” I answered.

  We cuddled, talked, sat up and talked, and made out, with no urgency, until it became urgent.

  “You have to go home tonight, don’t you?” I thought about telling her all about Jason and Adam, and held it back. It had nothing to do with her and the dodging I had done early on. That was part of getting myself clear of a murder charge. This omission was a different kind of deception, and made me feel soiled.

  “Yes, I have to go, not right now, but I will have to be home by three or so.”

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah?” I think that men fear two things: the snap of a rubber glove in a doctor’s office, and that tone of voice from a woman. The one that means she wants to talk, and that she wants to talk seriously.

  “Never mind, I guess.”

  I thought for a moment and spoke, hoping I was guessing well, “I’m a bartender, Dana. You’re an FBI agent. You overachieve, and maybe I’ve given in or even given up. We need to keep that in mind. The other thing is that I was a suspect, and you’re what you are.”

  “You’re a really good father, and a gentle, tender man. I like being your friend as well as I like making love with you. I think nobody will ever know much about things you want to keep to yourself. You’re a good friend and a fine lover. For now, that’s enough for me.”

  I nodded.

  “I should probably head for home. I want to be there when Marisol wakes up.”

  “If you gotta go, you gotta go, but before you go,” she said, with a grin.

  “Before I go,” She rolled over, pulling me to her. I didn’t resist at all.

  ***

  I got home and noticed the message light on the machine blinking. I thought about playing it, but couldn’t manage it. I collapsed into bed, still dressed.

  I woke up before six o’clock. I felt as if I would roll to one side and find Dana next to me. I got my feet to the floor, feeling as if there was sand in the gears. A half hour later, I had a coffee in my hand, and heard Marisol stirring around. I hit the “Play” button on the voicemail.

  “This is a message for Paul Costa. My name is Bill Latronica. Sandra, from DC asked me to call you with some updates on Jason Morley’s activities. I’ve been with him, off and on for a day or so, all routine stuff. Last night and early this morning, he and his aide drove up to Newport, and went into a neighborhood. Kind of blue collar, but nice. Anyhow, they parked and seemed to be looking at a Dutch colonial.” He read off the address. “It needs to have the lawn mowed. It’s got cedar shakes and white trim that could use some paint.”

  I’d been meaning to put a coat of paint on it, and Mrs. Pina’s grandson was due to mow.

  “I have them on video, watching the house. I suspect that this is important to you, and you can reach me on my cell phone.” He gave the number. I checked the time of the call, which came in about five minutes before I’d gotten home. I had to call him, but it appeared that they’d come to my neighborhood and spent some time watching my house. My daughter was in there, with a little old lady to protect her. A tough little old lady with a German Luger, but still a little old lady. The young girl had a perfectly good father, but he was out having dinner and sex, instead of protecting her. I wrote the phone number down and deleted the message. I was a little rough on the phone.

  If Sandra’s friend had been out tailing a political candidate until all hours, he probably needed some sleep, and I needed to think. I couldn’t use the police. They had to worry about their superiors, and internal leaks. At least DaSilva did. If Petersen had worked for the father, it was likely that he’d whore for the son, too. All DaSilva or Lacombe had to do was say something in front of a cop who was friendly with Petersen.

  I made a light breakfast, with the fruit that was still fresh. I cut away some bad spots and sliced fresh peaches and mixed it all up, gently. I used a dollop of whipped cream and made some toast. I was pouring juice when Marisol came out.

  “Was it nice last night, Daddy?”

  “Yes, honey. She’s a good cook, and a nice person. She loves to read, like you.”

  “I like it that we’re having company, sometimes. I think I’d like it if my friends could stay over, too.”

  “Would you like to have sleepovers?”

  She looked down at the table. “Sometimes.”

  “If you ever want to have a sleepover party, we can do that, you know.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did I do anything to make you afraid to ask?”

  “No, I just thought you want us to keep things the same.” My heart was breaking. I felt like nine kinds of fool. She went with my isolation, because, “Daddy must know best.”

  “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy. I love you, and I sort of wanted to just be home and have you close.”

  “Is it different, now?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good, I’m feeling different about things, too. We’ll work on it together?” She started to smile.

  ”Okay.” She looked at the kitchen clock, and got up, heaving her backpack onto her shoulder. “Love you!” A quick kiss on the cheek and a one armed hug and she was through the door, as the bus pulled to a stop. I was already missing her. I watched for cars or pedestrians. I didn’t see anything I didn’t usually see.
/>   I called DaSilva to check on his progress.

  “If we can keep those tapes and their contents quiet, I’d be grateful,” he said. “The family’s lawyer is keeping it as quiet as he can, to protect the Congressman’s image. The wife hasn’t been told.”

  Other than that, he was stalled. No luck with Miranda..

  “Listen, Larry, there was a flashdrive called ‘Lois,’ wasn’t there?”

  “Funny you should mention that one, Paul, it was recorded over. Our technician said that it had an old recording, and that the other one was duplicated on top of it. The tech weenie couldn’t pull up any of the old image. He could only tell us that there had been one. He said that was the only one that showed an old recording. The bastard used new tapes, then DVD’s, then flashdrives for all of his other home movies.”

  “Shit.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s proof of a crime in that old recording.”

  “You’re sure? And how do you know?”

  “Before I try to tap dance around that, are you interviewing the women on those tapes?”

  “No, I’m the Newport village idiot.”

  “I’m sorry. But how’s that going?” I asked.

  “They either deny knowing anything, admit to a past relationship, or cry and beg us not to let it out, ever.”

  “Blame them?”

  “Hell, no. But you do have to wonder how they got into such a mess.” That one could take all day to answer, and we could still be guessing wrong for most of them.

  “Larry, can your technician copy one of those flashdrives, any one at random, and hide the woman’s identity?”

  “I’m gonna assume he can. Why would he?”

  “So you can give it to me.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Cause I’m charming and mix a great gimlet?”

  “And because you know that a wiped out video had proof of a crime on it?”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Sure. Anything for a great mixologist.”

  “Will you pick one that has Jason and maybe Adam in action?”

  “Since I’m at your service, why the hell not?” He was getting a little testy.

  “Larry, I made some promises. I have a client, and this will move your investigation, I think.” Just because my client hadn’t hired me, didn’t mean I couldn’t use the excuse to keep things private. Just because my client was eleven and my daughter, didn’t change things at all. “So, will you do it? And it would be just great if you didn’t let anyone else know, especially a certain cop named Petersen.”

  “Petersen is on his way to suspension, I think. He’s got an awful lot of explaining to do.”

  “Has he got friends?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods? Of course he does. Others like him, mostly, but some political weight, too. The heavy cover will go away as soon as things go formal though. Why?”

  “Just checking my tail, Larry. You know how hard cops can make somebody’s life if they want to.”

  “I’ll talk to Phil Lacombe, he has an ear to the ground. If anybody would know you’re on the shit list, he will. In the meantime, I’ll drop your recording off at the bar, tonight.”

  I left a quick voice mail for Dana. “Just hi, and call me back, please.” I looked at my watch and decided to wait to make another call. I headed upstairs to knock on Mrs. Pina’s door.

  “Paul, good morning.” She was surprised, since we usually met downstairs.

  “Mrs. Pina, I’m sorry to intrude on your morning.”

  “If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “True. There will be a time, pretty soon, where I’ll need you and Marisol to be someplace else.”

  She didn’t even blink. “I have a sister-in-law I trust.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pina.”

  “Meo pracer,” she answered. She hardly ever spoke in Portuguese to me, unless she had a point to make. It reminded me of my ancestry, and my grandparents. Maybe that was all that she wanted.

  Downstairs, I picked up the phone, and dialed a number that I’d written down earlier that morning. It took awhile, but finally, the TV news producer was on the line. “Paul Costa,” I introduced myself.

  “Hello, Mr. Costa, I’ve been expecting your call.”

  “It’s Paul,” I said

  “In that case, I’m Bill. Sandra speaks pretty highly of you.”

  ”You too.”

  “You got my message?”

  “Yes, and you know that he was watching my house.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Sandra tell you about this guy?”

  “Enough to get me interested. I don’t think he has much of a chance.”

  “Neither did Nixon.”

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  “Jason has a dark side. I know of at least one case, where he didn’t even tell the victim to put ice on it.”

  “Proof?” He asked, starting to sound excited.

  “Oodles of proof.”

  “And what do you want in return?”

  “You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t know you, but Sandra says you have an agreement to do an exclusive with her.”

  “True, but you’ll get to produce it.”

  “Deal.”

  “Are you going to air the tape of Jason Morley and his thug watching my house?”

  “For what? They could always say they were checking on the safety of neighborhoods in his district or some bullshit like that.”

  “Good. You say it for them. Something like this: ‘A resident of Newport, well known to Jason Morley caught him on video, researching the safety of neighborhoods in his district. That same resident has an extensive collection of recordings of Jason and old family friend, Adam,’ whatever the hell his last name is.”

  “Birch,” he said. “Adam’s last name is Birch.”

  “Anyhow, if you could mention that the station expects to be coming into possession of those additional tapes when arrangements can be made, that should do it.”

  “This is a set up and you’re trying to roll me.” He was nearly whining.

  “Set up, yes, roll you, no. Whatever tapes I have, I will provide to the station, as promised. That’s a fact.” I was only going to have the one that Larry DaSilva was having made for me, but I figured that was information to keep to myself for the moment.

  “Arrangements?”

  “To be discussed later.”

  “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “I plan to give Jason an opportunity. If he takes me up on it, I promise it will be newsworthy. If he doesn’t, you still get evidence that will blow things apart.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “But will you do it?”

  “I have to give this some thought. I’m supposed to report news, not be used, and certainly not create news. On the other hand—” He stopped. “Watch tonight’s news at six o’clock.”

  “This would be a lot easier if I knew.”

  “It would, but I don’t know myself,” he replied.

  “Okay, I’ll watch the news, tonight. Either way, thanks for helping keep to tabs on him for me.”

  “Forget it. I owed Sandra one.”

  “At least stop by for a free drink sometime,” I said, and told him where I worked with a couple of nights that I could be found there.

  I cleaned up the kitchen and made my bed. Marisol had made hers, but left some laundry for me to pick up. There were still favored stuffed animals on her bed, and dolls sitting on her bookcase. I could see the little girl in her room. Then I looked around and saw posters of boy bands, teenaged movie actors and pictures of her, with me, with her mom, with both of us, and one of our wedding pictures. The budding young woman filled me with mingled pride and worry.

  With thoughts of parental inadequacy following me around, I dug out my legal pads and began to write some
notes. The situation with Jason and Adam might or might not fit into the murder of Richard Morley. I thought that they were just wild cards.

  Somebody killed the Congressman in a very professional way. Jason had the houseboy. Adam wouldn’t have taken a leak without someone pointing out which urinal to use. His haven was threatened by Morley’s death.

  Adam seemed to rely on the authority and direction from his employer to act. He had been tentative at the Morley house in DC, allowing me to react. He had vague orders, subject to interpretation to “show me out.” At my motel, he’d taken immediate control. I’d have bet that he had specific orders to do so, and carried them out once he knew what was expected of him.

  I had to wait for the six o’clock news. My grandfather used to say that things would be ready, “Bye and bye.” He usually found something productive to do while he waited for them to gel. I took my work clothes to the cleaner we were supposed to use, and grabbed some groceries. Paid my phone bill and my electric bill and looked at my account balance. Not pretty, but I made a deposit of tips and my paycheck.

  That killed the morning. I was emptying the dishwasher when the phone rang. “Paul, it’s Larry DaSilva.” He sounded depressed, and while businesslike as a rule, he was rarely down. I hadn’t heard it in the time I’d known him, anyway. “Miranda turned up.”

  I knew what he was going to say.

  “She washed up near Tiverton. They used dental records to identify her. Coroner and M.E. are working on her, but it’s going to be tough to say much of anything. She’s missing her lower legs, and there isn’t much left.”

  “Shit,” I said. I didn’t mean it to be profane, but I had no real words to use. “Any family?”

  “I just made the notification, myself. Her uncle’s going to claim the remains. You don’t seem surprised. Pissed off, I think, but not surprised.”

  “I’m not. Not really.”

  “Better tell me about it. The whole thing. Right now. I want to keep you out of the shitpile, but I need your help to do it.”

  I started with the night that the congressman died. “Somebody made an appointment, requesting Miranda,” I began. When I told him about Miranda’s vanishing act, and brought him up to the point of the body’s discovery, there was a long silence. “I don’t get the knife, Paul. If it hadn’t been for the knife, he’d just be a dead guy.”