Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  Sheba sighed, “What about Nadine?”

  “Nadine came in the same morning her father jumped. Handed me her badge and her gun. Personally, I feel she did the right thing.”

  “Sure, she made it easier on you.”

  “Sheba, all the years we’ve been together, you think I deserved a crack like that?”

  Sheba shook her head, stood. “No. You didn’t. You’ve always been decent.”

  Butch took two steps back as Sheba walked by him, circled his desk, and gazed down at the chair. Turning, she placed her hands on the arms, lowered herself to the seat. Leaning back, then swiveling from side to side, she nodded. Looking at Butch, she said, “Guess what? It fits.”

  “Always figured it would.”

  Turning to Vance, she said, “What about you, how do I look?”

  “The truth?”

  “Yes, though it might be a departure for you.”

  “Magnificent. Regal. Queen of all you survey.”

  “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you Johnny-boy?”

  Vance grinned, “Hey, you’re my boss.”

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Over thirty years as a cop, most of them as a detective, and Vance would the first to admit it. He just didn’t get people.

  People like the Kozoks. The three of them; Nadine, Bill, and Roy, standing there shoulder to shoulder. Standing, high on the Desmond bridge, standing at the very spot where their father had leapt to his death. Standing stoically, the unyielding angles and high, hard, Slavic cheekbones of their visages constituting a mini-Rushmore, a monument to perseverance.

  Carol, standing with them, holding Bill’s hand. Her delicate features contrasting with the starkness of the trio’s countenance, yet exhibiting an equal strength. Carol, on this Sunday morning, a bride once again. New marriage, same groom. Love, hopefully, lovelier the second time around. Vance, confirmed cynic that he was, worried that they were simply making the same mistake twice. Yet, it was the utter fearlessness, bordering on the reckless, that Vance read in the eyes of both Bill and Carol, that led him to question his skepticism.

  Vance understood the concept of people repeating their mistakes. In his profession he saw it often, counted on it. It had contributed mightily to his success, to his high percentage of cases solved. What he understood less, or little at all, was the diversity of grief, the versatility of people’s coping mechanisms. Prime case in point; the Kozoks.

  Nadine had called him. When she told him that there would be no funeral, no wake, no memorial ceremony, he hadn’t been overly surprised. Vance himself was put off by the histrionics of overt mourning. Funerals were for the living. The dead, whether they had found heaven, hell, or merely oblivion, could give a shit. It was in Vance’s own will: no funeral.

  Nadine had told him. He said he understood. Then she hit him with it, there would be a wedding instead. Bill and Carol would be remarrying. It would be an outdoor wedding, informal, Sunday at 5:30 AM, a sunrise ceremony. Then; the kicker. The nuptials would take place on the Desmond bridge, at approximately the spot where Vassily had either left his demons behind, or dove into their slavering maws.

  Vance had almost asked Nadine if she was joking. Considering the circumstances, he’d refrained. Bill and Carol wanted him to attend. Vassily had considered him a friend. Would Vance accompany her? Yes, he’d be glad to. That had been that, and here he stood. Three hundred feet above the water, watching the rising sun, waiting for a wedding to begin.

  Watching the water stretching out, it’s darker indigo melding with the paler azure of the sky where they joined on the horizon. This early in the morning, both managed to maintain the illusion of pristine cleanliness. As the day wore on the truth would out, their faux virginity shattered, both sky and sea would reveal their true colors, the horizon becoming a pronounced line, as dreary beige met dismal gray. Vance sighed; metaphor for the career of an aging cop.

  Elbows on the railing, he flicked his cigarette, watched it fall. Long fucking way down. Jesus. Had Vassily really done it, jumped? He remembered the story Vassily had told him at Bill’s barbeque, about his aborted leap from a container crane. Vassily adding, should he ever take his own life, his preferred method would be a long flight, and a hard landing. Given that memory, Vance figured there was a 75% chance that Vassily had actually done the deed. His alter-ego, Widowmaker, had, no doubt, been a heavy burden. Confessing to his loved ones, had perhaps rendered the burden too heavy. To Vance, Vassily looked good for suicide.

  Yet, the body had never been found. Bridge jumpers; sometimes they turned up, sometimes they didn’t. Luck of the draw. No one really knew how many people jumped off the Desmond in a given year. Two? Twenty? Two hundred? Zero? Anybody’s guess. Bodies turned up in the harbor every year. Many so badly decomposed, or damaged by the propellers of large sea-going vessels, that cause of death and identity were almost impossible to discern. The channel that ran beneath the Desmond was unpredictable, making it well within the realm of possibility that a body could end up halfway to Catalina, chum for the occasional Great White.

  Vance always felt uncomfortable writing off missing felons as deceased. He liked the cold, gray, proof that only a corpse could provide. Dental records and finger prints didn’t bullshit. On the other hand, pictures and videotapes might. That nagged at Vance. That, and the bunji thing. Vance could really kick that around, if the case hadn’t been closed. If, he hadn’t turned in his papers, retired. If, he gave a shit.

  A large brown hand on his shoulder ended his reflection. Geoff, “Big Geoff.” Fordham, said, “It’s time, Vance. We gonna do it.”

  Vance straightened, looked at Geoff Fordham. The Reverend Fordham. A big man, bigger up close than back in the days when Vance had watched him from ringside, fighting at the old Olympic in LA. Of course, it wasn’t all illusion. Time had added fifty or more pounds to the old heavyweight’s six foot three inch frame. Early in his career Bill Kozok had fought on many of Big Geoff’s undercards. Stablemates, they had trained, sparred, and did roadwork together. As their fortunes changed, it was Bill fighting the main events, Geoff boxing on Bill’s undercards.

  Geoff’s retirement did little to alter their friendship. Ordained as a minister years ago, Geoff had not only his own church, but also operated an athletic club for disadvantaged children. Bill was generous with his donations and, when his schedule allowed, eager to work with Geoff’s young protégées. When necessary, Carol had donated her legal expertise. Rev. Geoff had proudly presided at their original nuptials.

  Vance fell in step with Rev. Geoff; and the two men made their way to the wedding party. Rev. Geoff said, “You know, I married those two once before.”

  “Yeah. I heard.”

  “Doing it again. This time it better take. I told Bill that. Told him don’t be wasting my time. I got other things to do, besides marrying them two, every three, four, years. Hope that boy paid attention.”

  Vance laughed, “Reverend, you told me something, I’d pay attention.”

  Their walk to the waiting quartet was short, early Sunday morning traffic on the bridge, practically nonexistent. Rev. Geoff smiled at Carol and the Kozoks, said, “Ready?”

  Nervous smiles and nods as answers. Nadine grinned, winked at Vance. Standing tall, imposing, Rev. Geoff coughed once, smiled, and began,

  “Dear Lord, we are gathered here, not in sorrow, but in joyous cause. Matrimony. The re-joining of your children: Bill and Carol. We are not here to mourn Vassily. Nor are we about to deny him, for he was one of us. One of us, frail and imperfect, as are we. We come not to bury Vassily, nor to praise him. Sinners that we are, we are unfit to judge him, nor do we wish to. We leave judgment to you Lord, raising our voices in prayer, hoping that you will be merciful in your judgment of our brother, Vassily. May his spirit be with us on this most joyous occasion. Amen. Now then, do you William, take this woman, Carol, to be your lawfully . . .”

  As weddings go, it was to Vance’s liking: short and sweet. After hugs, kisses, han
dshakes, and congratulations were meted out, the six participants broke into pairs, and began the long, slow, stroll off the bridge to downtown Long Beach. The bride and groom led the way, Rev. Geoff and Roy followed, Nadine and Vance brought up the rear.

  Vance thought Nadine looked good, considering. Hell, Nadine looked good, period. It had been a long stress-packed year: From the moment Chuey Medina had pulled the trigger on her, to the soul-searing night when she had, ever so briefly, regained her innocence. Her innocence, and her blood father, revealed, only to be cruelly torn away by Vassily’s legacy of death.

  Nadine slowed, put her hand on Vance’s arm, stopped and leaned against the rail. Vance lit a cigarette, took it all in. Nadine, backrounded by the panorama that was the harbor, the morning sun her ally, highlighting the stark beauty of her perfectly healed face. Her hair, longer than ever, loose, a gentle breeze constantly rearranging the ravens-wing tangles. Her dress; first time he’d seen her in one, a floral print of some unidentifiable clingy material, years ago it would have been called a summer frock, was subtle but sure in it’s statement: This is a woman.

  Vance smiled at her, “I had to guess, I’d say you’re holding up OK.”

  Nadine smiled back, held up thumb and index finger an inch apart, said, “Actually this much more than OK.”

  “So, that means you’re gonna make it.”

  “Oh, I’ll make it. Hell, I’m Vassily’s girl.”

  “You know, that ain’t a bad thing.”

  Nadine eyes held Vance’s, “Who said it was?”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I liked the guy.”

  “To me, it’s worth a lot. You were ready to go to the wall for him.”

  “Yeah, I was. For you, as much as for him.”

  “That would have been a big mistake for you, Vassily knew that.”

  Vance shrugged, “Guess that’s why he didn’t take me up on it.”

  “Took the decision out of your hands, is what he did.”

  Vance nodded, smoked, stared at the sailboats flitting between the huge container ships, said, “So, you sorry about the job?”

  Nadine laughed, “Yeah, right. My first big case, perp turns out to be my dad. Job like that? Fuck it.”

  “Intelligence will out. Took me thirty years to come to that same conclusion.”

  “My grandma always said girls pick things up a lot quicker than boys.”

  “Doesn’t count. She was a woman, her opinion had to be biased.”

  “Biased or not, she was right. Hey, Vance? How about you, how are you doing? Don’t bullshit. I know the job meant an awful lot to you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. But, surprisingly enough I don’t feel too bad. You know why? Cause it was time. I’m old, not that that’s a bad thing. It’s just that I was slipping, missing things, letting my emotions get in the way. Now, the emotional part, I’m finding that’s not necessarily a bad thing either, but it doesn’t work for a cop. It was time, I’m glad I’m out.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “Honey, that’s gonna be a day to day thing, for quite awhile. Today, I’m thinking breakfast, soon as we get downtown. Hell, it’s a wedding day, means it’s not too early to start with a Bloody Mary.”

  “You’re a guest, I’m family. Means I’ll buy.”

  Vance took her hand, started walking, “Sounds like a good reason to get moving, catch up to the others.”

  They’d covered a hundred yards or so when the early morning stillness was shattered by the roar of motorcycles. As the bikes rapidly approached from the rear, Nadine spun, stopped and, hand over her brow, tried to catch a glimpse of every rider’s face as the pack of five roared by. Embarrassed, she glanced at Vance, started walking again.

  Vance fell in step, tapped her on the shoulder, said, “Hey, that’s only natural. You’ll get over it. Take a little time.”

  Nadine stopped, put her hands on Vance’s shoulders, “Maybe, but what about the fucking phone? How do I keep from jumping every time it rings? What do I pray for? Pray that it’s him? Or pray that it’s not?”

  Vance wished he had an answer. At the moment when his own silence stood ready to crush him, Nadine took his hand, smiled and said, “Hey, I’m good. You’re right. It will take a little time. That’s all, a little time.”

  Nadine couldn’t raise the dazzle in her smile high enough to bring its light to her eyes. Vance wanted to believe her, but he knew she was lying. Couldn’t fool him, he used to be a cop.

  Epilogue

  Montana

  Neon. Neon and all it stood for. It’s absence, in the clear of night, was her bliss. Big sky country. Moon a huge platinum disk, buffed, shining silver, fronting a starscape she found mesmerizing. Fuck neon, and the fast track to hell that went with it.

  Not that, in their first year, they hadn’t had a minuscule taste of hell in their little corner of the planet. It was called winter, and it had been brutal. She’d believed that enduring the harsh winters of her hardscrabble, Kentucky hill country, girlhood would provide adequate preparation for the rigors of northern Montana. She’d been mistaken; and the frigid Arctic winds coming off of polar ice, picking up speed across frozen tundra to howl, unrestricted, over flat Canadian plain, and all the way to their doorstep, gave cruel testimony to her folly.

  Still, they had survived. She’d, correctly, pegged him for a city-boy, but he’d been well traveled. Having picked up rudimentary survival skills during a stint in the military, he’d known enough to begin stockpiling firewood and canned goods long before the earliest of autumn leaves began to fall. What they had run out of was cigarettes. Forty, wind-torn, miles to the nearest town, the road interspersed with ten to fifteen foot snow-drifts, provided ample motivation for them to kick the habit.

  Their cabin was small, spartan, sturdy and weather-tight. A powerful short-wave radio kept them in touch with news of the outside world, and provided the joys of music. Further entertainment came from the bags of used paperbacks they’d hoarded with an eye toward the winter.

  During the endless frozen nights, they warded off cabin-fever with a battered copy of the Kama Sutra. In front of a roaring fire, they trekked the ancient roadmap to pleasure together. The arrival of the spring thaw found them supple of limb, subtle in technique, and comfortably in tune with one another.

  With the snow’s retreat, they took to the highway, driving the hundred-plus miles, south, to Great Falls. After a week of motels, movies, shopping, and restaurant cuisine, they headed home. The warm weather opened endless new vistas, and they hiked the wooded hills relentlessly. They fished clear lakes and streams together, often cooking and eating their catch on the spot. He was an adequate, and improving, hunter. She’d surprised him, with her skill in dressing out a deer he had brought down; herself, that she had retained the ability.

  Sitting on her porch, drinking coffee, taking the morning sun, she watched as he split small logs into kindling. While she had gained a few pounds, he had leaned-out considerably. Gone was the thick mass of iron-pumpers muscle. Replacing it was long, lean, ropy sinew. She watched sunlight play over the cords of his arms and shoulders as they bunched and relaxed with each effortless swing of his ax. A final swing, left the ax in the chopping block. Squatting, he gathered, and tossed the kindling into a bucket. He stood, saw her watching, smiled, began walking toward her.

  She returned his smile. She was content. Beyond content. Happy. Regrets? She had none. After the Desmond, she’d never looked back. It hadn’t been a problem for her, she’d left nothing behind. She knew it was different for him, he’d left family. Wrestled, constantly, with the knowledge that he’d betrayed them. Yet, he could still smile, even laugh. Because of her. This she knew, without reservation, without doubt. She made him happy, and she’d continue to do so.

  He took his seat next to her, she handed him coffee. Smiling, he thanked her, sipped, then smiled. His face, sun-browned, crinkly at the corners of his eyes. His eyes, she loved them when they were alight. Like now. Couldn’t get en
ough of the magic emanating from the unparalleled jade orb, the morning sun highlighting its every golden fleck.

  Surely there wasn’t another such an eye in all the world, she said.

  He told her she was wrong. Told her of the eye that mirrored his own. Told her of his greatest sorrow, that he would never gaze into that eye again.

  She leaned into him, took him in her arms. Lips on his ear, she told him what she knew to be true.

  ‘Never’ was a sham, a lie. The mantra of the defeated. Better to stand unbowed, trusting in ‘someday.’ ‘Someday,’ where hope stretched endlessly on the horizon, and all things were possible.

  The End