A Murder Too Close

by Penny Mickelbury

  “You already know everything,” I said, sitting on the chair adjacent to her desk, while she sat at the desk and opened the chili. “It’s the middle of night, I can’t sleep, I’m in the living room pacing, Connie comes in, I asked her to marry me, then the phone rang. It was Yolanda telling me our building was on fire. Then Connie and I rushed to the office, the building didn’t burn down, Connie said she was going to work, I said she hadn’t given me an answer, she said yes, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  Jill was laughing so hard she’d choked on a mouthful of chili and I had to get up and slap her on the back, then get her a bottle of water from the little refrigerator in the corner of her office, next to the bookcase. She drank water and I slapped her on the back some more, and she finally settled down. She was still laughing, but she wasn’t choking. “That was just so romantic, until you got to the Bob part. Where on earth . . .” She started laughing again, this time patting herself on the back to keep from choking.

  “I’ve always wanted to say that,” I said, laughing too. “The British have the best sayings, don’t they? ‘Bob’s your uncle.’ I mean, what does that mean?” She was laughing again. “I’m going to the bathroom and I’m not coming back until you’ve finished eating.” And I left the room, found the bathroom in the hallway between her office and the patient reception area, washed my hands and face, put some water in my hair and smoothed it down, and then went back to Jill’s office. She was putting the empty chili carton and napkins in the trash.

  “That was very good. Thank you.”

  “I should have gotten the big one.”

  She shook her head. “That was fine, though you’ll have to tell me where you got it. I may want to get the big one to take home. Tonight’s my television-watching night!” She sounded as excited as a little kid. She’d recently gotten a digital video recorder from the cable company and recorded the programs she wanted to watch. Then, once a week, she watched television, all her favorite programs in one night. “A big bowl of chili and some more of that good French bread . . . and speaking of which . . . ?”

  I gave her Jackie’s little notebook and she sat back down at her desk, positioned the lamp head for reading, put her glasses on, and began to read. She took a pad from her desk drawer, and pen. I may as well have not been in the room. She read several pages, then turned back and began to write. A couple of times she shook her head. Her brow furrowed. Once she looked surprised. She continued to read until she was finished, then she wrote, occasionally going back to check something, but writing swiftly and surely. When she finished she looked up at me, a sad, worried look. “Would you like to tell me what this is all about, Phillip?”

  “Would I like to? No. But I will tell you.” And I did tell her. All of it. When I finished she stood up, tore the pages of translation from the note book, folded them, stuck them inside the little leather notebook, and walked around the desk to stand in front of me.

  “What you have here is vindication for Jacques Marchand. He writes that he saw one of the people in the insurance office try to read what was in this notebook. He writes that he realized how foolish it was to keep the diary when his colleagues suspected him, but he planned to collect enough evidence to bring them all down.” She held out the book and the papers to me. “Vindicate this brave, foolish young man, Phillip.”

  “That’s my plan,” I said, “but I’d appreciate it if you’d lock this little notebook in your safe. I’ll take the translated pages and hope we can use the information to leverage the proof we need to send some people to jail.”

  “Why can’t you use the diary itself?” I hadn’t told her quite everything, like how I came to be in possession of the diary. “Jacques didn’t give you this, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t,” I said, and she wisely asked no more. I stood up. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She walked me to the front door. “The chili?”

  I told her where to get the chili, gave her a hug, and went out into the night. It was dark and cold. Not frigid, not ass-freezing cold, but cold enough that if I saw a vacant taxi, I’d ride back to the office instead of walk back. I zipped my jacket all the way up and raised the collar and was turning the corner on to Second Avenue when a hard blow to my left shoulder staggered me. I whipped around, arms and hand instinctively up, and grabbed for what I saw ready to come down on me again. I took most of the force of the blow on my right forearm and managed to get a loose hold on whatever it was with my left hand. I pushed and pulled at the same time, throwing my assailant slightly off balance. Slightly because it was the Tank.

  “You shoulda paid me the five hundred like I asked you, motherfucker.” His breath stank of beer and hot dogs, and his person stank of the prolonged absence of soap and water. He was not much taller than me but outweighed me by maybe a hundred pounds. True, he was fat, but he was as strong as an ox, and pushing against him felt like pushing against one, too.

  “What’s the matter, Kearney doesn’t pay you enough so you have to hustle me?”

  He grabbed my jacket collar and yanked me toward him like I was a junior high school kid and not a grown man, older than himself. “What do you know about Kearney?”

  “That he doesn’t trust you with the big jobs, big boy.”

  “Yeah, he’d rather trust a Jew than his own blood.” He loosened his grip and I took advantage of the opportunity and plunged my right fist into his belly and met nothing but layers and rolls of fat. He, on the other hand, hit me hard, with his fist, against the side of my head, and I saw stars. I stomped down hard on his instep and his high-top Chucks were no match for my Doc Martens. He yelled, cursed, and tried to dance out of the way, but I now was holding on to him instead of the other way around. I was pounding on his back, which was having no effect, and he wasn’t about to let one of my feet near his again, so we danced around like that for a moment. Finally he gave me a good shove away from him and I lost my balance in the slush and went down hard. He kicked me but I was rolling over so the kick didn’t land squarely, but the foot stomp to the ribs did. He was trying for another when I grabbed his foot. I knew he was coming down and there was nothing I could do to stop him from coming down on me. I couldn’t breathe—not that I wanted to with him lying on top of me; his stink made me gag. The only positive aspect to this position was that he couldn’t kick me again, but neither of us could move—me because of his bulk, him because of his bulk.

  “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker.”

  “Like you killed Jackie Marchand?”

  “Yeah, motherfucker, just like I killed that little bitch.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, and head butted him as hard as I could. I almost knocked myself out and stunned Tank enough that I could roll him off me, but that’s all I could do. He must have cracked a rib or two when he stomped me because I couldn’t get myself to an upright position. Tank was on his hands and knees, his butt to me, and when he turned around he had his weapon back—a length of pipe. The kind of pipe, maybe even the same pipe that he’d used to kill Jackie. I kept trying to sit up, kept failing. Tank was grinning at me. He was on his feet, weaving a bit, but gripping the pipe. Then he made a mistake: He straddled me. I used the only weapon I had—a foot encased in a steel-toed boot. I fired it upward, into Tank’s scrotum. He didn’t make a sound when he dropped to his knees. I crashed my fist into his jaw and knew that it hurt me more than it hurt him. No way around it: I would have to take another dirty shot if I was going to leave here alive. Tank was on his knees, breathing hard, his eyes glazed but not tilted. He was shaking his head to clear it, and trying to stand up, something I knew I could not do. I flexed my hand and it hurt like hell; I couldn’t hit him in the face or the head or the chest without breaking the rest of the bones in my hand. Only one thing to do: I shot my arm out from the shoulder and connected my fist with Tank’s Johnson. He fell backwards and curled into a ball.

  It was taking way too long for me to get to a sitting position, and I realized what I hadn’t re
alized before, which was that I was soaking wet and freezing. My teeth were chattering. I reached into my pocket, looking for my phone, and knew that the pitiful mewling, moaning I was hearing wasn’t all Tank. Every movement I made sent excruciating pain coursing through some part of my body. I knew I had broken bones in my hand, cracked or broken ribs, maybe even a broken skull. I also knew I couldn’t go another round with Tank. I had to get up and get away before he collected himself.

  I finally extracted the phone but couldn’t flip it open. I was starting to shake. People were walking past, looking at me and Tank on the ground, walking around us. I’m not drunk! I’m not crazy! But nobody heard the words because I couldn’t make them come out of my mouth . . . Jill! That was Jill coming up the sidewalk . . . she’d see me . . . she wouldn’t walk past someone lying on the sidewalk . . . not Jill Mason . . . talk, Phil! Dammit, open your mouth and talk! “Jill . . .”

  She stopped walking and looked down at me, disbelieving, horrified, terrified, and she backed up, backed away. “No. No. No!”

  “Jill . . . please.”

  She came back, leaned over me. “Phillip.” The pain in her voice was more potent than the pain in my body. It was just what I needed.

  “Please go call Yo. Tell her to come get me.” Jill didn’t move but Tank did. “Jill, go! Now! This is the guy who killed Jackie Marchand!” She turned and ran then, this good and beautiful woman who had suffered too much for one life but who had always managed to find enough caring and feeling to give to another person, and here I had just frightened her half to death. This is why I needed a gun. If I could have just shot this bastard, I wouldn’t have had to frighten Jill Mason half to death.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You frightened me half to death.”

  I was in bed and Connie was sitting on the bed beside me and I smiled. Then everything hurt and I stopped smiling and started remembering. I looked around at the room. This was not home. This was the hospital. “I’m so sorry, Connie. This is not a regular or routine thing, I promise you.”

  She touched my lips with her finger. “I know. Yolanda told me. So did Mike and Eddie. You’re not an adrenaline junkie and you don’t go looking for trouble. This trouble came looking for you, which I’m sure he now regrets.”

  “Not half as much as I do.”

  “But he doesn’t have me to help make him feel better.”

  I smiled again and this time it didn’t seem to hurt quite so much. Or maybe it did because when I woke up again, Connie was gone and Yolanda was in the chair beside the bed. I couldn’t read the look on her face. She stood up, leaned over and kissed me, then walked out. Eddie and Mike walked in.

  “Ortiz, you hairy bastard! What are you doing here?”

  He came and stood by the bed, took my hand, the one that didn’t have a cast on it. “What were you thinking, ’mano? You can’t take down a big dude like that by yourself!”

  “How are you, Eddie? Really?”

  “I’m really good. I get tired easily but I’m good. Linda let me off the leash just long enough to come see you. I’m going right back home.” He raised his right hand as if taking the oath, which Linda no doubt had made him do.

  “You up to telling us what happened?” Mike asked.

  I didn’t like reliving the experience but I knew it was necessary, so I told them everything I could remember. “Man, where did we ever get the idea that a fat boy was a wuss?” In one of my moments of semi-consciousness lying there in the freezing water, I’d had a really lucid thought, and it just came back to me: I was going to the gym every day, no matter what. I was not going to get caught without the strength to protect myself ever again. “For the first time in my life, I now know that if I’d had a gun, I would have shot another human being. That guy was going to kill me.” I had to shake off that thought. “He told me he killed Jackie. Right before he said he was going to kill me.”

  “We got the papers from your jacket, the stuff Dr. Mason translated.”

  “It wasn’t all waterlogged and illegible?”

  Mike shook his head. “You’d stuffed it deep in the inside pocket of your jacket. You were soaked through to the bone, but the papers were dry as a duck.”

  Eddie was giving me a funny look, kinda like the one Yo was wearing, and now that I thought about it, Mike was being much too cheerful. “What is it you guys aren’t telling me?” I held up, or tried to hold up, my hands, and the pain that ran up and down my arms, both of them, told me they were still there. I raised my legs, one at a time, under the covers, and could see that they were still there, both feet still attached. I was looking at Mike and Eddie so I wasn’t blind, and I still had Connie’s scent in my nose so my other senses were working. So, what the hell was wrong?

  “He got away,” Mike said.

  I’d thought my head couldn’t hurt any worse but the pounding increased and intensified until I thought my skull would just crumble into tiny little pieces. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. There was nothing to say, but I was thinking that I’d just taken the beating of a lifetime for nothing.

  “That’s the bad news,” Eddie said.

  I looked at him, looked at Mike, still didn’t say anything.

  “The good news,” Mike said, “is that Doc Mason took a picture of him with her cell phone, and you had his DNA all over you. We’ve got his large ass, bro. You didn’t fight the good fight for nothing.”

  “Get outta my head, Mike. It hurts bad enough without you stomping around in there.”

  “You really head butted the guy?” Eddie asked.

  I nodded, regretted the action, held up my right hand in its cast. “That’s what happened when I hit him with my hand.”

  “Well, the head butt gave you a mild concussion.”

  “Is that why my head hurts like it does?”

  Two doctors came in and Eddie made for the door. Can’t say that I blame him, just having gotten out of the hospital himself. “Thanks, Eddie. I’ll call you later.” He left and Mike positioned himself at the door but he made no move to leave. I, however, was more than ready. “When can I leave?” I asked the doctors, looking from one to the other. The younger one busied himself reading my chart; the older one bent over and shone a light in my eyes and asked me to blink.

  “I’d prefer you stayed another night, but if you have somebody to take care of you, you can leave today.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Are you ambidextrous? Got another right hand in a drawer at home? No? I didn’t think so. Then you can’t take care of yourself.” She walked out, followed by the young doctor.

  “I’m gonna take Eddie home and then I’ll be back,” Mike said.

  “No, you won’t. Go home to your wife, Mike. Watch TV, get some sleep, eat a decent meal. I’ll be fine. I’ll stay here another night, get rid of this headache, practice wiping my ass with my left hand, talk to Connie about babysitting me.”

  He started to protest, I waved him off—with my left hand—and he went away. Quite frankly, I was glad to be alone, to be alone with my thoughts. I didn’t doubt that the mess they were making was contributing to the headache I had. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. I didn’t want to go to sleep, I wanted to think. I just wanted my thoughts to be calm and quiet and orderly, not racing and screaming and doing wheelies off the walls of my brain. “Okay,” I said out loud, “a half dozen fires, three murders, and who knows how many false calls to Homeland Security. Common denominator: The Kearneys. The fire starters worked for them; they either made the calls to DHS or had them made; and at least two of the murders are tied directly to them.” That helped. I cranked the bed so that I was sitting upright, and that helped, too. I kept talking to myself. “The delivery boy at the Taste of India burned to death, presumably by accident; Jackie Marchand was beaten to death; Bill Calloway was shot, so was Eddie. Three different means of murder, three different murderers?” I swung my feet over the side of the bed and rode the wave of nausea, dizziness, and pain that sw
ept over me like those Hawaiian surfers I like watching on television. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna pass out—or wipe out, I was thinking to myself. “Breathe, Phil, breathe,” I said to myself.

  “Good advice.”

  I opened my eyes. Connie was standing there with my overnight bag. I couldn’t describe the look on her face for all the money in the world, but I won’t forget it if I live to be a hundred. “Will you marry me tomorrow?”

  “What’s wrong with today?” She came over and hugged me and I held on.

  “I know this frightened you, Con, and I’m so sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I want to go home. Now, today. I told the doctor I’d stay tonight but I don’t want to, Con. I want to go home. Will you stay with me? I promise I won’t whine, complain, or cry when it hurts, and I’ll wipe my own ass with my left hand. You will have to feed me, though.”

  At first she was crying, then she was laughing, and because I was sitting and she was standing, she was taller and she rested her chin on my head and I liked the role reversal. “I’ll go find the doctor, then I’ll help you get dressed.” She put the overnight bag on the bed and unzipped it for me, and laid out my clothes. She’d thought of everything. Almost.

  “Did you by any chance bring a phone?” She unzipped the side pocket of the bag and produced a phone. “Is Yo mad with me?”

  Connie shook her head and now her face had something of the same sad expression that Yolanda’s had had. “There are only three constants in her life, Phil: Sandra, you, and her home. You and her home swayed under her feet at the same time. Remember, the building that is your office is also her home, and you are more than her business partner. Her world suddenly felt not so stable, Phil. Not like such a sure thing.” She kissed the top of my head and went to find the doctor. I looked at my clothes laid out next to me and opted to try and flip open the cell phone. I remembered trying to do that last night and wondered if that phone was still lying there in the slush. I got the phone open and was practicing using my left hand when Abby Horowitz came breezing in, still looking like an Upper East Side rich guy.