Loose Ends

by Amos Gunner

CHAPTER 34: DALE

  But this wasn’t a show, was it? My course of action wasn’t guided by a bitter, underpaid writer nor overseen by a devoted executive producer. A far more creative entity than any Hollywood artist was in charge.

  I kept on Ravella like white on rice. Scratch that. I’ve always hated that metaphor, being partial to brown rice myself. Say, like black on coffee? Yes. Much better.

  I followed his slime trail onto the expressway and off, down a wide street which would yield hours of lotus-eating for any true capitalist. Although I’d surmise Ravella’s shopping list has its amusing moments, bad taste, regretfully, is still legal, and spying upon Ravella’s shopping excursion would bring me no closer to catching the bastard. I very nearly questioned the wisdom of what I was doing.

  However, he drove past the mall--and the opportunity to improve his image--and turned into a residential tract allotted a pleasing, albeit generic, designation. Floral Hills I believe.

  Now, I judge myself to be--and past successes confirm--damn good at tailing, and the light traffic in the residential area was a test of my mettle. In such a situation, one must retain one’s invisibility a safe distance, yet not so distant as to lose the scent. Tricky. I negotiated admirably.

  He made a right down a dead-end lane and parked in a driveway. From my proximity near the intersection where I had stopped, I was afforded a somewhat obfuscated yet serviceable view through a square of woods.

  While I awaited, anticipating fireworks, I quickly jotted a few notes regarding my rogue investigation thus far, a technique I use to jog my brain through recent events to re view them. I began with the minute Ravella exited his apartment and ended with--I read the street sign: Crestview Lane. It rang a bell. The ring swelled. I searched the case files. Ravella was at Adam Sutler’s.

  Had we given a pass to Ravella’s co-conspirator?

  I maintained my suspended state, refusing to accuse Sutler yet refusing to accept the validity of his acquittal. Besides, if it turned out we had misjudged Sutler, then the slice of humble pie we need swallow would in no way upset the gratification of nailing Ravella once and for all.

  By the way, because the trees forced me to relinquish a comfortable degree of certainty in my view, I had failed to identify who had let Ravella inside the house. But as long as I got an unobstructed shot of Ravella exiting with a smoking gun--Sutler in tow or not--I could live without gleaning the surrounding details. My notes were as complete as my perspective allowed.

  I called my wife and spun a plausible lie to explain my whereabouts. Let me make this clear: I detest a lie. Like the Jesuits say, the wise never lie. At least I think that’s what they say. A lie denigrates the speaker as well as the listener and is an abasement of language itself. However, in the interest of domestic harmony, the truth may sometimes prove itself more destructive than virtuous.

  She informed me Evan Gruber had called. My quick pet declined to give him my cell number.

  I considered ignoring his call. Our interconnection had been short lived--founded on his false posturing and finally destroyed by his weak spine. But ever notice how a call from any ex-companion leads one to endlessly conjecture the reason for the call until one must put an end to the speculation before it swells to a dangerous weight and any thought on any other subject becomes impossible?

  So I dug out his card from my briefcase, telling myself there was a chance--a way off chance--he may hold information essential to my task at hand.

  Obviously, he held nothing. His information, such as it was, was he had suddenly remembered World War II. The bustle of daily life had temporarily blanked out that massive, catastrophic event from his memory. He breathlessly reminded me the U.S. had waited to join the fight but eventually we did and eventually we won. Was the tenuous parallel with the present situation meant to lift my spirits? Fool.

  To continue his weak metaphor, I replied he could wait for Pearl Harbor if it pleased him to do so, but I was going to strike preemptively. After a moment of silence, he cautioned me, “Don’t do anything hastily.” Practical advice, I agree, but also obvious and, to my ears, downright disdainful. Next he was going to tell me to beware of yellow snow. I pressed a button and put an end to his good intentions.