The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  “Didn’t have no choice,” she insisted. “It was dig or die.” Then she’d laughed. “Or more likely, dig and die.”

  My life isn’t at risk, only my future as I set to work. I had installed Zoom on my computer about a year ago, when Sean decided to be a father instead of a deadbeat. His impulse lasted all of a month, during which he had three conversations with his daughter. Followed by nothing.

  The only good thing to come out of the episode was that I learned to use Zoom, which I bring into play at ten o’clock, the appointed hour. A moment later, I’m staring at three faces, all female. Madison Klein introduces herself first. She’s a middle-aged woman, with red hair bright enough to match her professional smile. Allison Fromm comes next. In her sixties, at least, she’s the medical center’s nursing director. Her smile is a good deal thinner than Madison’s, but I’m not detecting hostility. More like wait and see.

  The third woman is much younger, almost a girl, and I assume she’s there to reassure me. Her name is Valentina Cepeda, and she’s the first to speak after the introductions. “Hola, Bridget, how are you this morning?”

  My response should be enthusiastic, but I can’t work up the energy. I can’t screw this up, either. That’s because I’ve reached the point where escaping Baxter is all I can think about. The Resurrection Nursing Home, too. If patients lose it in a hospital, you’ve got instant backup, including hospital security officers who get paid to handle violent patients. I could have been seriously injured last night or even killed, and I know Lester will lose it again if he returns.

  “I’m fine.”

  Madison picks up on my hesitation. “Are you okay, Bridget?”

  “A little tired.”

  “Did you work last night?”

  “Yes, at the nursing home.”

  “Rough night?”

  “The worst, Madison. The absolute worst.”

  “Did someone pass?” This from Allison, the head nurse. “Did you lose somebody?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. Someone almost passed.”

  “Someone close to you?”

  “Yeah, I’d consider myself fairly close to me.” I open up at that point, beginning with Lester’s background. If there’s any drama, though, it’s in the words. My tone remains unemotional. Just the facts, ma’am.

  “Lester’s kept on one hundred mg’s of pheno, four times a day, along with fifteen mg’s of Zyprexa. That’s enough to induce a stupor most of the time. But every couple of weeks . . .”

  Valentina’s mouth is hanging open before I even get to the part about the blood, the part about flying down the hall, retrieving the Ativan, confronting a psychotic who has the means to slice my throat in his hand.

  Madison’s reaction mirrors Valentina’s. Her jaw drops so far I can see the back of her throat. But Allison Fromm only nods, and I know she’s been there. She reminds me of a Resurrection patient who died a year ago after being infected with Covid-19. Teddy Wright had spent most of his adult life in the military before suffering a massive stroke at age fifty. He’d seen action in first and second Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Syria. Nothing, not even Lester at his worst, could shock the man.

  “When I told Cesar to open the door and let him out, my heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to blow a hole in my chest. But I got lucky. Lester was almost through the episode before we opened the door. He was ready to be talked down, and that’s basically what I did. I convinced him to drop the shard of glass, then drove the Ativan into his thigh before he could react. He was unconscious a few seconds later, but still pouring blood. I tore the rubber tubing off a blood-pressure cuff and used it as a tourniquet until the paramedics came. By that time, Lester’s blood pressure had dropped to eighty over forty.”

  Madison can’t hold it in. She raises both hands as she interrupts. “What about the RN? Didn’t you tell me you were supervised by an on-site RN?”

  “You mean Lena Proctor? She slept through the whole thing.”

  Madison and Valentina appear shocked, but Allison laughs until tears form at the corners of her eyes. “Let this be a lesson, Valentina,” she says. “Right now, you work in a hospital where there’s always help at hand. Later in life, you may find yourself in a situation where you have to rely on your own judgment.” She turns her head slightly to look into the camera. “You come work for us, Bridget. We’ll put you in our psych ward. That way you can deal with psychotics every night.”

  Now we’re both laughing.

  I find Mom outside when I leave the house. She’s leaning against my car, puffing away, her gaze sharp enough to chip a diamond. I’m not expecting her to skirt the issue, subtlety being a skill unknown to her, and she doesn’t surprise me.

  “You kill him, Git?”

  “How can you think that?”

  “How? Do I have to remind you about trying to kill your husband? Remember Sean? You didn’t miss by much, girl. A few inches one way or the other and he’d be over and done with.”

  “That was different. I was defending myself. Remember the cracked rib? The black eye? I had to make a point, Mom. The scumbag wanted to turn me into his slave.”

  Mom’s always admired women who fight back, and she finally smiles. “Lemme see if I got this right. You didn’t kill Bradley, but the cops think you did.”

  “I watched the press conference, Mom, and they don’t even know who I am. They just want to talk to me.”

  “Then what keeps you from makin’ a phone call, lettin’ ’em know who and where you are?”

  The question’s reasonable, but I don’t have a ready answer and I don’t try to make one up. “I didn’t kill Bradley Grieg, Mom. Him or anybody else.”

  “But you were at the Skyview, where he was killed by someone?”

  I can almost see those twenties fluttering to the carpet as I open the car door. I can see the twenties, and I’m glad he’s dead. I’m only hoping it hurt. “Yeah,” I tell my mother. “I was there.”

  It’s eleven o’clock that evening, and we’re watching the local news, me and Zack. Or rather, Zack’s watching the news. I’m watching Zack.

  “Almost think I know her,” he says. “Problem is she reminds me of just about everybody.”

  “Why do you think the cops want to find her? The chief didn’t say.”

  “Word I got, they think she might’ve killed him. But she don’t look like a killer to me. Looks like she’s out to get laid.” Zack pauses for breath. “What do they call them things? Pheromones? Feels like I can smell ’em from here.”

  “Maybe it happened by accident.” I’m telling myself to keep my big mouth closed, but I can’t. It’s like I have to know. “The cops are saying that Grieg was robbed. So maybe what started as a hookup . . .”

  No need to say any more. Zack gets the point, but he’s shaking his head. “Passion’s one thing, Git, but it’s no small thing to kill a man cold. You got to have a nose for it. You got to have experience. Stealin’? Yeah, okay. But killin’ is another thing. What I heard, somebody put a bullet through the back of Grieg’s head while he was passed out. I can’t see that girl there bein’ the one who pulled the trigger and watched his brains splash against the pillow.”

  The pressure inside my pressure cooker of a brain finally overpowers me. I have to tell someone. I can’t hold it in any longer. “Zack, it’s me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s me, the woman in the photo.” I’m searching for the right words, but the best I can do is repeat myself. “It’s me.”

  Zack starts to speak, then checks himself. I watch his eyes soften. With regret? Sympathy? I only know that I can’t stop now. I have to let it loose.

  “Listen to me, Zack. I work seventy-two hours a week and take care of Charlie when I get home. On my one day off, I play catch-up, shopping, cleaning, cooking, taking Charlie somewhere special, even if it’s only to a movie. This is my life, the life I chose. But once in a while, not even every month, more like every two, I need to get out. The sex is part of the dr
aw, but only part. Mostly, I want to feel a man’s eyes on me, a man wanting me. If the situation was reversed and a man—”

  “Git, listen to an old fart who’s been around. You’re more than desirable. You’re a fantastic woman, and you should have found a steady man long ago. I can’t—”

  “Attracting a man’s not my problem. My problem’s that I keep picking the wrong man. My whole life, from my first boyfriend to the last. If Bradley isn’t proof of that, nothing ever will be.” Suddenly I’m letting it all go. The bar, Bradley at the table, riding to the motel so horny I couldn’t sit still, me bent over the dresser, the shower running, the twenties casually tossed in my direction. Then Bradley unconscious on the bed and that snakeskin bag.

  “I shouldn’t have looked. I even told myself not to look, to go home to Charlie and my real life, but I opened it anyway. I found a gun inside, lying on a pile of money.” I turn now to face Zack. “A lot of money, Zack. Enough to change my life, mine and Charlie’s.”

  “And you took it?”

  “No, Zack, I didn’t. Maybe I should have, what with everybody thinkin’ I did. And I wanted to, that’s for sure. Only it wasn’t mine, and I just . . . Call me stupid, but I have this thing about earning my own way. Earning your own way is how you take charge of your life.”

  “So who took it? The cops?”

  “Does it really matter? Like you said, once the cops went on the record about the motive being robbery, Connor Schmidt had to do something to somebody, and I’m the only somebody out there . . . Not that it matters.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CONNOR

  I’m on the road as soon as I finish breakfast with Mom. Headed for a truck stop ninety miles away on Interstate 80. I’m driving a Toyota Camry instead of my red Lexus, dark blue and three years old. My wardrobe is as dull as the car, a gray polo shirt with a little elephant on the breast, a pair of khaki slacks, and well-used white running shoes.

  Anonymity is the goal, the whole, entire point, and a light but steady rain definitely helps. My car is just another hunk of metal cruising down one of the country’s many interstates. No need to check this one out. The state troopers who pass me only glance in my direction. Here and gone.

  Business is business, and the Schmidt crew stands to clear a cool five grand from the deal with Waylon. Assuming the prick has the money, assuming he’s not bullshitting me. One thing sure, I won’t accept any delay, not even a minute, and Waylon knows it. Screw me, and we’ll never do business again.

  Ninety miles is a long way to travel with two pounds of methamphetamine in the trunk, but I have no choice. The time and place were dictated to me last night by the seller. But I’m not really thinking about the job. I’m only a step away from accomplishing what I’ve wanted to accomplish for a very long time. But in what direction? When you have to involve cops as smart as Mariola, you can’t count on trickery. You have to put them in a position where they have no choice except to play your game. You have to outgame them.

  At one time, and not that long ago, bulk drug deals involved guns. Guns on both sides of the equation, the whole transaction an exercise in paranoia. That changed when I was introduced to my current suppliers. Outside of being Hispanic and able to supply just about anything I need, they’re completely anonymous. I don’t know the location of their base, if they have a base, or the names of the men and women who make the deliveries to a different location each time we do business. I place orders via text message through a preprogrammed burner phone they supply. A short time later, I receive a text message on the same phone telling me to be at a certain place at a certain time.

  Me, I’m grateful. In the past, you never knew what you were getting, or that it wouldn’t be a bullet. Now the price, the count, and the quality are always right. I’ll take what I’m given this morning and carry it directly to Waylon, no weighing or testing involved, a perfect middle. Here and gone.

  I’m in the truck stop for less than five minutes. Long enough to spot the gray van, pull in beside it, open my trunk, watch a package that includes a new burner dropped into the well, finally make payment. Then I’m off, headed for a park ten miles from Waylon Longstreet’s home. I suppose I should be worried. Waylon’s not especially trustworthy, and he’s got a big family. But my thoughts have already turned to the girl in the hat. I need to find her, and I think I will if I have enough time. I’m in a race with the cops.

  Our guy on the job told me the released photo is the best they have. I find that amazing, but I watched the video myself. Maybe the bitch was inside Randy’s for a long time, but she never raised her chin, and the fucking cameras were positioned high up on the wall. That means she was makin’ sure nobody recognized her, which also means there were people in this town, people who might show up at Randy’s, who knew her. She has to be local.

  First things first. I’m driving through farm country, where most of the farms cover more than a thousand acres. Towns are few and far between, with the occasional cluster of small farms and even smaller businesses.

  I don’t know how Waylon and his extended family accumulated enough money to buy the meth they’ve been selling for the last ten years. I don’t give a shit either. On the other hand, Waylon and his brothers and cousins take turns going to prison, and a rip-off is always a possibility. Which is why I stop a few miles outside of Whitson, the town Waylon calls home, and go into my trunk for the .45 semiauto hidden beneath the spare tire.

  Better safe than sorry, but my precautions are a waste of time. Waylon meets me at an intersection, then follows me to a small park. Deserted in the rain, the park’s little more than a collection of picnic tables and benches set before the only year-round stream in the county. In the movies, the buyer cuts open one of the bricks with a knife, then subjects the product to some kind of chemical test. But the Schmidts, father and son, play a different game. Our customers have twenty-four hours to return any product we handle. No questions asked. No testing allowed. Here and gone.

  Believe it or not, my scumbag of a father is still unhappy. I’m handing over five grand, the take from a morning of work in which my old man played no part. In fact, the cartel, which is how I think of our supplier, has never spoken a word to Carl Schmidt. It’s all Connor, all the time. I set it up and I make it work, but he gets the money. You’d think, at the least, I’d hear a thank-you as he peels off fifteen hundred, then drops the rest into a drawer. You’d be wrong.

  “I seen that picture,” he tells me. “The broad in the hat. Take this to the bank, Connor, somebody out there knows her. The assholes who drink at Randy’s don’t commute from Chicago. If she was deliberately keepin’ her head down, she’s gotta be from around here.”

  I ignore the fact that I’ve arrived at the same conclusion. “Sorry, but I was kinda busy this morning. I’ll get back on it after lunch.”

  “What about yesterday?”

  “I asked around, but I’m thinkin’ she can’t be ID’d from that photo. Not for sure.”

  “You didn’t get a name?”

  “No, Pop, I didn’t get a name. But I sent Augie out this morning, and he came back with ten names. That’s because you put out the word. Identify the girl in the hat and the Schmidts will reward you.”

  “Now what, you got an attitude?”

  “No. What I have is orders to fill and a list of deadbeats we need to contact. Like, before they overdose.”

  “Okay, so forget the girl. Forget she robbed and killed your best buddy in the world. Just pay me the eighteen large and go about your business. And by the way, your cut of the deal this morning? Consider it a first payment on the debt.”

  I’m thinking that should be the end of it. No such luck. My old man’s always had a gift for delivering one last punch.

  “Them people at the Skyview, the ones got killed yesterday?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have anything to do with that?”

  “Not a thing, Pop. I was with Augie all night. Takin’ care of your business.�
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  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DELIA

  It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m eating breakfast. Alone. When Danny’s around, I cook. Eggs, bacon, sausages, waffles, something to fill him up. The kid’s always hungry. Now I’m looking at a buttered corn muffin. Not freshly baked, but dug out of a package I bought yesterday at the city’s only Kroger. I heated the muffin in the microwave. Which did nothing to improve its dense texture. At present, it’s rapidly cooling on a paper plate.

  What I’m feeling is lonely. Danny’s been part and parcel of my daily life for twelve years. Long enough for some part of my deluded brain to pretend that he’ll always be a child in need of parenting. In fact, he’s showing an interest in girls while he formulates vague plans for adulthood. A baseball scholarship to college. A degree in computer engineering if he’s not drafted into the major leagues. A life apart from his mother.

  Suddenly I’m watching myself a couple of decades from now. An aging dyke with a butch haircut, wearing a man-tailored shirt and chinos. Living alone.

  You’ve been postponing. That’s what I tell myself. Having a kid, working a full-time job? You can ignore loneliness, maybe not even feel it. There’s always something that needs to be done. Always someplace you have to be, a phone call you have to make, a suspect to be arrested. And that day of reckoning? I try not to envy straight people. I tell myself that the grass is always greener and heteros have problems of their own. But now I wonder what it would be like to have three or four kids, a dozen grandchildren. How it would feel to bury myself in life for the duration of my own. And I have to ask myself if Danny’s wife—and I know he’s straight—will want me close to her children.

  My phone interrupts this pity party. It’s Vern. After the chief’s grand revelation, we spent the rest of the day running down the false leads that poured into the hotline. The only good news is that I’ll get paid for wasting taxpayer dollars.