by Alan Lee
“Contract’s off,” I said.
He didn’t flinch. His face didn’t pale. But he did look…disappointed. “Contract’s off?”
“Check the database. Contract’s off.”
I referenced a bounty placed on my head by Darren Robbins. A hundred grand. He’d canceled the contract last month, but some of these mercenaries set up their account to only be alerted if the contract gets fulfilled, not canceled. Or else they miss the alert. For a hundred grand, they’ll swing by Roanoke every few days and look to see if a light’s on in the office. As part of the underworld code, a hit at home is off limits. Cause they’re sweethearts. With databases.
The guy made a sniffing noise. “How’d you know? Who I was, I mean.”
“You have a neck tattoo. No one with a heart of gold has a neck tattoo. Plus your accent isn’t from Roanoke. Plus guys like you don’t hire guys like me. Plus you hid your gun hand.”
“Son of a bitch.” He mumbled, referring to himself. I hoped. He raised up and returned the pistol to a holster behind his back. A hitman—but not a good one. “Waited all this time, got’damn it. Contract belonged to Robbins, right? Why’d that bastard cancel?”
“I told him if he didn’t, I would feed him to his cat.”
“Oh.”
“But here’s the best part—I’m going to kill him anyway."
He grinned. Wasn’t a good look. “Want me to do it?”
“Negative.”
“Why not?”
“You suck at this.”
“Hell I do.” Stood up a little straighter. “I’m a pro, guy.”
“You just put your gun away.” I waggled the Kimber. “While mine is still out and pointed at you. Kinda forecloses the pro argument. What if I was lying about the contract?”
Now his faced paled a little. “Shit.”
“Uh huh.”
“Were you? Lying?”
“I was not. But that doesn’t change facts. Which are, you suck at this.”
“Whatever, guy. I’m going,” he said.
“Tell your friends. Contract’s off.”
“My friends?”
“You’re the second today to show up. It’s not even lunch. You idiots need to do your homework.”
The guy made a sniffing noise again. Glared some. Left. The stairs groaning under his descent.
Darren Robbins. I was going to shoot him. A lot. Starting with his pinky toe. I set the gun on the desktop, feeling punchy. That was the wrong kind of stimulation.
Called for another shot of Johnny Walker Blue, though.
Thirty minutes later, as my anger burned off, the door opened on the main level and the stairs heralded another visitor. I placed my hand on the Kimber. I might just shoot this one.
A woman entered.
Gun down. I do not shoot women. Because I am a hero.
Also, for the most part, they don’t shoot me.
She looked sheepish—unsure if this was the right place and unsure if private investigators were real people and unsure how to begin. Maybe fifty, fifty-five. Strong, like she worked for a living. Twill jeans that weren’t new, weren’t old. Not tight but not baggy. A cotton v-neck sweatshirt worn under a brown cardigan. Modish leather boots, low heel. No rings or other jewelry. She had faint lines at her eyes and lips—no plastic surgery, no makeup. Her arms were crossed and she was a little hunched against the cold.
“Mr. August?”
I stood. “Yes.”
Embarrassed smile. “Do you have a moment?”
“For you, I have the best moments. Please come in.”
She did. Glancing around, arms still crossed. A defensive posture. Looked at my bookshelves. Admired my potpourri.
I assume.
She asked, “You are for hire? Did I say that right?”
“I am and you did.”
“You do all…I mean, I guess, I should say, what kinds of things do you do?”
“Things other people would rather not.”
“Oh.”
I nodded impressively. “Think of me like a police officer. But one you can have personally.”
“Okay. That’s what I was… Okay good.” Her mind was made.
“Indeed."
“I’m Rose Bridges.” She didn’t offer her hand so I didn’t either. A gentleman only shakes if the woman offers. “I’m here on behalf of someone who would like to speak with you. Is that okay, Mr. August?”
I indicated my chair. I sat. She sat. I nodded encouragingly.
“He could probably come himself, but this way is easier,” she said. “Ulysses Steinbeck. Do you know him?”
Holy moly. What a name. Liked him already.
“Should I?”
She said, “Probably not. He was in the news a few years ago, and used to be a respected man about town. I was only curious.”
“What event warranted his appearance in the news?”
“A bad car crash. That’s part of the reason it’s easier if you go see him.” She withdrew a single check from her cardigan pocket. Didn’t know what to do with it then. Pushed some of her hair behind her ear. Red hair on the verge of gray. “We’ll pay you for your time. Of course.”
“What relationship do you have to Ulysses?”
“I…I’m his caretaker.”
“Full-time?”
“Yes. I live with him.”
“Is he paying me or are you?”
“It’s his money.”
“What for?”
“What for?” she repeated.
“I mean, why does he wish to speak with me?”
“Oh. Yes, sorry, Mr. August. He needs your help.”
“Help with…?”
“Well…” She laid the check on my desk and pushed it across. It was blank except for the signature. Holy moly, I liked him even more. Rose wore no fingernail polish. “You see, Mr. August, that’s the thing. We don’t know. He doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know why he needs my help?”
“No…um, kind of. See, it’s complicated. It’s…he needs help finding something. But he’s not sure why, and…”
“Am I making you nervous, Ms. Bridges? I can close my eyes. They’re steely, I know.”
“No.” She smiled and seemed to relax a little. Shoulders lost some tension. “It’s just, the situation is complex. His situation is complex, too. I’m only here on his behalf and I don’t know the best way to articulate it. And…it’d really be much better if you spoke with him. It’s not a matter for the police and it’s not a matter for us, and so…” She shrugged and almost indicated me with her hands. “Does that make sense?”
“It does. You adumbrated my entire career. How soon?”
“Soon as you can.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
She smiled. Not embarrassed. More like relieved. “That’d be great.”
“Where?”
“His home, please. I’ll write down the address.”
She did. I almost whistled. As it happened, Ulysses lived on my favorite street in Roanoke. This Ulysses fellow was hewing toward supernal.
I indicated the check. “How about I make this out for two hours of my time? Then we’ll see.”
“Yes, okay.”
“Give me a hint, Ms. Bridges. About what I’m getting into. You said the situation is complex and so is his condition. How so?”
“To put it bluntly, Mr. August,” she said. Took a deep breath. “He has a form of amnesia.”
“Amnesia,” I said.
Brilliant detectives always repeat stuff.
“He needs you to find something. A dog. But he doesn’t know why. He forgot. In fact, he hates dogs. But for reasons that you’ll discover, we both think the dog is important.”
“A dog.”
“Yes.”
“An important one.”
She nodded. Eyes a little wide. “Very. You’ll see.”
“Dogs usually aren’t important.”
“He agrees. But he writes ‘Find the dog’ in h
is journal every day and he doesn’t know why. If it’s a dog even a man with amnesia remembers, then maybe it is?”
“Artfully phrased.” I didn’t tell her, because it might sound perverse and lurid, but I was stimulated.
January 2nd. Looking good already.
Chapter 2
That evening I made lasagna.
I used bacon and Italian sausage and ground beef. Also, and here was the kicker, I made the noodles out of mozzarella cheese and almond flour and cream cheese. No carbs that way, because my ineffable roommate was terrified of them.
Check that. Housemate. Not roommate.
We were evolving.
Kix rode in an ObiMama sling, strapped to my back. Was he too big for this? Probably. But I wanted to wring all the babyhood possible out of my son before sending him off to college.
He pointed at sizzling pans and shouted things.
You’re burning the Italian sausage.
“Yes, I see.”
Drain the ground beef, you maniac.
“I’ll drain the beef but I’m keeping the bacon grease. It’s good for you.”
That cannot possibly be true.
He threw his bottle in protest. Good thing; he’d been banging it against my shoulders.
Pick that up.
“I’m not picking it up.”
Pick that up this INSTANT.
Instead, I turned on jazz—Coltrane.
Sheriff Stackhouse arrived first, just after six. She wore official law enforcement garb today. Hard to make khaki look that alluring. Most days she looked like a soap opera star playing the role of sheriff. Tonight she looked like a soap opera star playing the role of an airplane crash survivor. Usually she kissed my cheek, which I enjoyed, but today she only squeezed my arm. Still nice. Without speaking she opened one of the bottles of wine she kept next to the fridge—red blends, under twenty dollars a bottle—poured herself a glass and sat on a leather couch in the living room and closed her eyes.
I slid two trays of lasagna into the oven. Started running hot water.
“On the bright side,” I told Stackhouse. “You still look good.”
“Not for much longer.” Eyes remained closed. She undid her belt, winced and shifted for more comfort. Drank some wine. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Were you forced to shoot a hostage? That’d really ruin my day, I was you.”
She half-smiled. “I don’t mind the violence. It’s the political maneuverings. Nothing but meetings with do-gooders, all of whom have the best ideas how to fix crime and also slash our budget.”
“When you say best, do you mean—”
“I mean the worst ideas you can imagine.”
“I was afraid you might.”
Stackhouse said, “Free mental health care for the homeless. She’s convinced all the local counselors will do the work pro bono. My ass.”
Kix shouted for his bottle of juice. I put him in his playpen. He shouted some more. Adolescence starting early.
My old man Timothy August came next. Handsome guy, streaks of gray, could be a news anchor. All his hair, trustworthy eyes. He entered without comment, same as his paramour. Tie already loose. He sat next to her, picked up her legs, and laid them across his lap. I brought him a glass of cabernet sauvignon—sixty dollars a bottle.
He took the glass. “I knew there was a reason we birthed you.”
“Plus easing the burden of existential angst.”
I changed the channel from the news to ESPN. No reason to release more pain and animus into the house.
Manny returned home soon, along with one of his co-workers, Noelle Beck. She was coming around more, though clearly proceeding on a platonic plank. Tall and trim. Light brown hair worn in a mousy bun, always. She wore black Rockports, a neat navy suit, no tie, white shirt buttoned all the way up. Good posture. Noelle was a Mormon, which came with dress code intransigencies I thought, but still I wished she spent an extra three minutes prepping in the morning. Thirty seconds for mascara and two and a half minutes for conditioner. Maybe Ronnie could teach her how a hair brush worked.
Manny on the other hand—such a handsome son of a gun it made my head hurt. Trim waist, broad shoulders, easy grace, quick smile, brilliant teeth, gah. Even Kix thought so. He shrugged out of his white sports jacket and greeted the room. The gun under his arm, the gun on his belt, and the tattoos on his arms caught the light and gleamed, which, I thought, was cool.
“Beck,” I said. “Staying for dinner?”
“Mack, thanks,” she said. She worked her phone in one hand but she glanced at Manny for permission. She wanted to. “I really can’t stay though. Just dropping Manuel off.” Their relationship was a peculiar one. Even Kix thought so.
“Stay. I made ambrosia.”
“Of course Beck is staying, amigo,” Manny announced. He opened the fridge door for a low carb beer. “Need to fatten her up.”
“Why do you get to decide?” I said.
“Because I did.”
“Do you set out her pajamas too? Enforce a strict bedtime?”
He paused, struck with epiphany. “Beck, you moisturize at night, si?”
Beck was on loan to Roanoke from the NSA. A computer wiz. Stupefied by his question, she paused, lowering into the corner reading chair. “Moisturize?”
“You work hard, señorita, chasing bad guys. Well, kinda. Gotta protect the skin.”
“Like…with a cream?”
“Ay dios mio.”
“Manny, babe, maybe let me talk with the girl about this,” Stackhouse said. “Just because you’re pretty doesn’t mean you’re a woman.”
He lowered the bottle of beer, the suction producing a soft pop. “What do you use?”
“Olay Advanced,” said Stackhouse.
“That’s for the day, mamí.”
“I use it at night.”
“Because we’re still cave people?”
“What do you use?”
“Verso Night Cream.”
“Verso?” Stackhouse sat up a little straighter. “You’re joking. That’s a hundred dollars a bottle.”
“Look at this face. Find a wrinkle.”
Beck offered, “I have some Burt’s Bees stuff, I think, I could use.”
“Burt’s Bees? That’s a toy for children, Beck! What, Mormons hate their complexion? You wanna look like Mack at his age?”
“Um,” I said.
Stackhouse grinned. “What else, Manny? You and Agent Beck going to get breast implants?”
With his free hand, Manny pounded his chest. “Feel these pecs, señorita sheriff. Nothing but American muscle and testosterone and questionable supplements. But, Beck what bra size are you?”
Kix gasped.
“Good hell,” said my father and he rubbed at his eyes. “How soon is dinner ready, son?”
“Not soon enough, that’s for damn sure.”
Stackhouse closed her eyes again. “I love this house and the people in it. Truly. I’d be a wreck without it.”
Half an hour later we set the long table situated between the kitchen and the living room. Lasagna and garlic bread and caesar salad, wines and beers. Water for Beck. Juice for everyone under two.
Before we sat down, Veronica Summers entered. She arrives in a room the way Victoria Secret angels enter a runway—with verve and elegance and the wow factor. She didn’t glow, but kinda. Today she wore a form-fitting khaki and black jacket combo, and black heels with red soles (which I’m told is important). She is tall, elegant but with feminine muscularity.
A month married to her and I still found things to admire. Yesterday it was a certain laugh she reserved solely for Kix. This morning I admired the curve of her jawline, especially as it curled under her ears. Her jaw looked stronger and more sinewy than most. I’d looked it up—she had great superficial masseter muscles, creamy skin tight across. I had yet to share this impossibly romantic compliment with her.
“Look at you people.” She laid down her coat and bag. She smiled
and we all corrected our posture. “So beautiful. Honestly, TLC needs to know about this house and the men who live here and the foolish women who totter after them.”
I held up a flute of sparkling wine. “Freshly poured.”
She took it, making sure her fingers brushed mine. “You read my mind. And the dishes are already washed? Should you and I run upstairs before dinner? Because…I’m ready.”
“If you insist.”
“No,” said Stackhouse. “Sit, gorgeous. I’m starving. Be in love on your own time.”
Ronnie went around the table kissing cheeks, including Beck’s, who always got a little quiet around her. I knew the feeling.
I said grace. Not everyone shared my convictions about a personal and benevolent higher power, but they all felt grateful for our blessings. Which, I thought, hurt their case.
We ate.
Ronnie was worried. I’d learned the signs. This wasn’t a major worry because no lines violated her forehead, but she had a far-off look. A small worry then.
I asked.
She said, “Not a big deal. We’ll talk sometime when the lovely Sheriff can’t eavesdrop.”
Ah. That meant trouble in the underworld. She remained an active player. Now I was worried. But intrepidly so.
Ronnie asked after my day. I told her I’d been hired to talk with a guy who had amnesia about a lost dog.
“A dog,” she said. And smiled again. I remained calm. “That’s charming. What kind?”
“He can’t remember. Nor can he remember why he wants it, because he hates dogs.”
“Who could hate a dog? I had several growing up. Strays from the pound. My father wouldn’t buy me a designer puppy.”
“I always wanted one,” I said.
“And never had one?” Ronnie loosed a scowl upon Timothy August. “No dogs? What was wrong with your parents?”
“Awful people,” said Timothy. “Hated dog hair. Still do.”
“What about a breed that doesn’t shed? Like a Doberman?” asked Stackhouse. “I love a good Doberman. Bite the ass off a felon.”
“Yes, but who’d clean up the feces?”
“Kix,” I said.
Kix did not reply. Unbeknownst to us he’d fallen asleep in his chair. Head down and to the side, deep breaths making his forehead bob. His fingers still on his tray, gripping lasagna.