Loose Ends

by Amos Gunner

CHAPTER 16: ZEKE

  Although I learned a lot from Quinn, I might’ve given the impression that he had a grand theory or philosophy. He didn’t. If anything, Gavin Quinn believed in thinking on your feet, street smarts. That’s nearly all. I say “nearly” because he was also a big believer in nothing. He said so all the time in different ways. But if you believe nothing matters, you believe in something, right? It’s confusing, I know, but at the time it was somehow crystal clear.

  I mean a cop’s street smarts, by the way, which is different than a con’s. And both are totally different than a civilian’s street smarts. I’m not sure you can say a civilian even has street smarts, unless you count knowing where to shop for the cheapest milk.

  He wasn’t crooked. Don’t think that. Oh, we roughed up a few lames when we had to, but we made sure to leave ‘em too scared to say a word. See? Smart, not crooked.

  Gavin Quinn was what they call an old-timer. I don’t like that expression myself because it implies something newer and better came along. Sutler’s a good example of the new type and I think I’ve thoroughly communicated my view of him.

  See, Quinn came up the seventies, when the crime rate was so bad that no one cared if a cop bent a rule now and then. Well, the crime rate plummeted so it fucking worked. But once things improved, people stuck their thankless noses up at the old way, the good way, the way that had just proven itself to work. Enter the new breed. Heads crammed so full of law books, no room left for the smarts required to get the job done. Tell me, can you see a wave of Sutlers cleaning up a rotten city? If you can, you got a more powerful imagination than me. But suddenly, Quinn’s tagged an “old-timer.” Like that’s an insult? Like that should be a term of respect?

  Then the cancer and early retirement. It was hard to watch a strong man who gave so much to Columbus get reduced to a patient, a patient speeding downhill. He was still a few notches above a walking stick, but he was getting bad fast. At first, his place smelled like a rotten apple. Then it smelled like a bushel full of rotten apples. It hurt to go over ‘cause the stench made me queasy. I didn’t plan to visit again. Then I needed a nice suit and I didn’t know who else to ask. The smell had gotten worse. I always said the old man was full of piss and vinegar, but holy shit. Smelled the same when I returned the suit. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. By the way, Gavin was buried in that suit about two weeks later.

  When I returned it, he was having a bad day. This watch they gave him for his retirement had set him off. He said it was a mean joke, like they were pointing out he didn’t have much time left. I don’t know. Sometimes he acted like the rain came just to piss him off. Actually, he was more hurt than anything. He said, “I love those guys and this is how they repay me?”

  I didn’t really get why he had grown so sensitive to his mortality. Again and again he told me, “If life is rotten, which it is, death can’t be worse.” So what was he worried about? I chalked up his change in attitude to dying. It can twist your perspective. Maybe he was reconsidering his ideas close to the end. Maybe he started to worry about his soul.

  He tossed the watch aside. The toss seemed to hurt him but he was making like he was still rugged Quinn for my benefit. I don’t know why. Like, he asks if I wanted a beer and I say I’d try one. I stand but he bats me down and gets it himself, shuffling in the old man’s shoes he’s forced to wear before his time. Then he says he wants to swing on the porch. I’m sure. He wanted to nap. I was like, “Don’t waste your strength on me,” and he said, “Who else am I gonna waste it on?”

  We go outside and I get a gentle rhythm going for us, the closest he’d been to humping in a long time, poor bastard. I cracked the beer and gave a toast, something like, “You lived on your own terms and that’s how you’ll end up. Here’s to you.”

  But right away, I see my toast was a crock. Some porker in a Hawaiian shirt walks by and gives us a wave, his lard arms jiggling. Gavin tells me he’s a neighbor who does the lawn. It must’ve been hell to have to ask some douchebag to do simple yard work. That wasn’t on Gavin’s terms.

  I took out my flask and swigged. Offered it to Gavin who said the stuff tears up his belly. Man, that wasn’t on his terms either. Was a day he’d drink the entire bar under the table, do a handstand and recite the alphabet backwards. Swear to God. I put away the flask and returned to the beer.

  I ask if anyone’s paid him a visit. I try to ask it casual, but sometimes I’m a bad liar. Anyway, Gavin doesn’t pick up on my hidden meaning. He sort of snaps and says, “Like my daughter?” Whoa. Seems I hit a sore spot. That was, like, the third time he ever referred to her in the entire time I knew him. Gavin once met this chick from Arizona and nine months later he was a father. That’s all I knew. I’m sure that’s all there was. I don’t know where his snippy attitude came from. Did he try to contact his daughter and got turned away? I didn’t probe. I dropped the whole question. Anyway, if someone wanted to hit up my old partner for the sake of being thorough, I had to take it. It’d just be nice to know. Well, I never did find out. That’s fine.

  So I ask if he needs anything. He says a whore. Then he says since he can’t do much, I better get two so they can entertain themselves. He’s lightening up and goes into a story. It starts with, “Remember the time when...?” which of course I do because I was there, but he has such a good time telling the story that I let him finish.

  At the punchline, he coughs up something wet and nasty. I ask if he’s alright. He nods, takes a breath, then turns the table and asks if I’m alright. I play dumb but he won’t let me off easy.

  I give in and tell him the shot was clean. He nudges me and he says, “Clean like last time?” The last time was this peon spick bookie who I had to take out. I had to. Made it look like self-defense. In a way, it was. I dressed my story real pretty and got away with it. But after, Quinn gave me so much shit he took away the fun.

  So I duck his question, belch, and paint the broad strokes of the current case. Guy worked for a guy who we wanna bring down. He ran. I fired. All that was true and satisfied Gavin. He said I saved jail space, which is true too.

  Then he asked about Sutler. I said Sutler was the type who busts old ladies for illegal right turns, then wonders why nothing ever gets done. No balls, no brains.

  Gavin gives me a warm smile, like maybe how a father looks at his son who just won the big game. If that wasn’t enough, he pats me on the leg. And if that wasn’t enough, he says he’s proud of me.

  Man, you can take all your medals and shove ‘em. When a man like Gavin Quinn says he’s proud of you, well that’s gotta take a back seat to whatever the chief has to say, any accolade the goddamn president can give you. I could’ve retired right then knowing I did good.

  But sheesh, Gavin givith, Gavin taketh away. He goes on and says, “You’ve always been a smart one. World won’t save itself you know. But take it easy on your partner. After all, till all the shit gets flushed down the toilet forever, remember it’s cops versus the world.” That’s what he said: cops versus the world.

  Of course, Kevin Bradshaw’s ugly mug pops into my head and I start to freak out. If Gavin knew, I don’t know what would happen. He couldn’t beat the shit out of me, but he could tell me to leave and never come back, and that would be worse. A young viper dug its teeth deeper into my soft spot.

  But Gavin told me a ton of times, “Nothing matters.” He said it and showed it again and again. I tell him this. “I thought nothing mattered.”

  “I’m not so sure I ever really believed that. I know, I know what I said, but now I’m talking about what was going on under the surface, always. Ever since I was a little shaver, I sort of sensed there was something. I didn’t know what and I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of the mystery, but in my quietest moments I tried real hard, say during those long nights I couldn’t sleep. Now, with all this time on my hands, I’ve taken up the task with what vigor I got left. But the something’s identity is and always was out of reach. Closest I’ve com
e is filtering out what it ain’t. It ain’t church. I know that much. And it ain’t family and I’m pretty sure it ain’t the law, though I think the something kind of echoes in the law. No, I don’t know what it is, but that don’t mean it ain’t. I feel it, using the same feelers that helped me raise the prison population all them years. Shoot, I don’t even know if it’s good or bad, but I’ll stake my life on it--there’s something.”

  By now, the swing’s come to a stop. Gavin had been addressing an invisible audience in front of us, but at the end he turns to me to gauge my reaction.

  I’m trying not to hyperventilate and I want to book it, hole myself up in a dark room till shit makes sense. Gavin takes my contorted face the wrong way and says, “Ah, I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He turns away. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  Damn it, I should’ve told him he got it all wrong, that the awkward moment was because I couldn’t handle his talk, not because he gave it. Of course, I now know why that moment was painful for me. It was the start of my rebirth and birth always hurts, even rebirth. Yeah, I got that later. At the time, all’s I can think is, “Something’s happening to me. I have to get away from his watery gray eyes. The viper in my soul’s having a field day and if I can’t get rid of it, I can at least numb it long enough to think straight.”

  I stand and say how nice it was to see him. You’d think I’d slapped him. He tells me to wait. Goes through the torture of getting off the swing, then goes inside. I whip out my flask and suck it like a starving baby, then drain the beer bottle.

  He returns with a bundled towel. Opens it real careful to reveal a beautiful pearl inlaid handgun, a 1955 Walther PPK. Tells me it’s the same peacemaker German plainclothesmen used, not to mention James fucking Bond. I ask permission to touch it. He says, “Please.” It fit cozy in the palm of my hand. I check the clip. It’s loaded. The best always are.

  It’s rare in this world to find the beautiful combined with the powerful. Except God, of course. Ever fire one? It’s not the biggest or loudest. Won’t make the widest hole in anyone. But shoot someone in the eye and ask them if it tickles. Or you can hang it on the wall, though you’d be a fool not to take it down now and then, if just to massage the grip. It felt better than holding my meat.

  After I have my fill, I hand it back. He gives me the towel. Tells me the masterpiece is now mine so I can fire off a few rounds at the range and recall him fondly. Says it might even save my life someday. I want to tell him I don’t deserve it, but I’m emotionally drained and speechless. I wrap it up and hold the bundle to my chest.

  He stands in front of me, waiting for something. A handshake’s too formal, but a hug’s too intimate. I aim for the middle ground. Slap him on the shoulder and squeeze. He says he’s glad he got to know me. I think we both knew that was the last time we’d see each other. Cop’s intuition.

  He says he’s tired and has to lay down. I let go of his shoulder and nod stupidly because I’m speechless. “See you later,” he says and he’s gone. I hope he was right. I really do.

  After I hide the gift in the back of my jeep, I take one last look at his house. He lived there for years, alone. I was the closest thing he had to a real family. I might not seem like much, but when you consider how isolated we all are, we should all be so lucky to have anyone at all.

  Driving home, the big call came from the lieutenant. Marner says IA’s reached a decision. That’s all he says, just to fuck with me. So I joke and say, “Well, should I start heading south?” He says that’s a good one, but no. I’m good to go back to work on Monday. I still have to meet with a counselor, though. Then he says, “Speaking of which, have you heard about Kevin Bradshaw?” I don’t know what a counselor and Kevin have to do with each other, but anyway I say no. He tells me the news. I do a convincing job acting horrified.

  Obviously I was happy at the verdict, but part of me was like, “Bastards. Put me through all that for nothing.”