by Greg Herren
“Who’re the boys?”
“Me and my brother.”
“Who’s older?”
“He is by two years.”
“Were you close to your grandfather?”
“Not at all. I didn’t even know him until a few months ago. My parents split up when I was about four. My mom is from Puerto Rico, so she moved me and my brother back there to live with her mother. We were there for a few years, then Mom sent for us after she was settled here. I saw my dad maybe once every few years, and never saw my grandfather at all until he showed up in town back in August.”
“How’d the happy reunion go?”
“Not so great. My mom didn’t want my brother and me to have anything to do with him.”
“But you did anyway?”
“I did. My brother didn’t.”
“Why not?”
The kid turned without answering and walked out of the room. I switched off the lamp and followed him into a cramped, cell-like bedroom with no windows. A double bed, stripped to the bare, stained mattress, was shoved against one wall. Some of the stains were more blood. I assumed the sheets had left with the police in evidence bags.
A beat-up dresser leaned against the opposite wall. I wasn’t sure if the wall was holding it up or vice versa. On top of the dresser lay a scattering of loose change, a small mountain of receipts, a cast-iron bulldog, and a watch.
He pointed at the dresser. “His wallet was there, too. The police took it with them. They said it still had money in it.”
So robbery wasn’t the motive. I walked over to get a closer look at the receipts. A couple came from cheap local restaurants, several were from bars of the dive variety, but the majority were from a nearby strip club known for being particularly gritty. The deceased wasn’t going to be up for any grandfather-of-the-year awards. “What’s with the bulldog?”
“That was his nickname, Dogo, because he was like a bulldog.”
“Ah.” I recalled the photo the boy had shown me and I understood why he had earned the nickname Bulldog. “You still haven’t told me why your brother didn’t get cozy with grandpa. Or why you hated him.”
“I’m getting there.”
“Hurry up. I charge by the hour.”
The kid hunched his shoulders. “My brother would have nothing to do with him, but wouldn’t say why—only that he was bad news. I decided I wanted to get to know him anyway.”
“Why?”
“I…I never really had a dad. My mom’s father died when she was a teenager, and she was an only child. I have a few uncles on my dad’s side but I never knew them. I guess I liked the idea of having a man in my life for a change.”
He looked like a little lost boy, and I fought the urge to put my arms around him. No need to get distracted. “I take it that didn’t work out so well?”
“No.”
This interview was starting to feel like pulling teeth. “Are you going to tell me what happened or are you going to make me guess? Can we at least play charades? How about twenty questions?”
“He tried to have sex with me, okay?”
That brought me up short. My tobacco craving went into overdrive. I actually scanned the room for a spare cigar, even though I never touched the things when I was still smoking.
I turned my attention back to the kid, who was busy staring at the floor, his hands balled into fists at his side. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“At first, everything seemed great. He was good to me. We cooked dinner together, he gave me beer, he told me stories about my dad, said how much I was like him. It was nice, you know? I hardly know my dad. It almost felt like I had a real family for a change. For a little while, at least. Then…”
I felt like a jerk for asking, but I needed to hear the whole story. “Then what?”
“He got drunk one night. Got me drunk.”
“And?”
“And he started telling me I was pretty. He kept hugging me and rubbing my back. Then he touched my butt. I tried to pull away, but I’m not very big. He was stronger…”
“Did he…?”
“Fuck me? No. He touched me, told me how much he wanted me. I punched him in the face and ran out when he let go of me.”
“What did you do? Did you tell anyone?”
“I went to my brother’s. He doesn’t live that far from here. I was crying. I told him what happened, and he got really mad. He said…he said our grandfather used to do stuff to us when we were little. I don’t remember, but he did. He said that’s why Mom left our dad. She found out. That’s why she sent us to Puerto Rico. She was trying to keep us away from him. I didn’t know.” He broke down, tears spilling down his cheeks.
I wanted to comfort him more than ever but kept my distance as he swiped angrily at the tears. “You were little. Not your fault. What happened next?”
“My brother told my mom.”
“How’d she react?”
“She…freaked out. She said…”
“What did she say?”
“She said it was probably his fault I’m gay.”
I really wanted a cigarette. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think it works like that.”
“Smart kid. Did she say anything else?”
“She…” He stopped and stared down at the bare floor.
“Spit it out.”
“She said she should have killed him years ago.”
Interesting twist. “So why isn’t she a suspect?”
“She was out of the country visiting my abuela, her mother.”
“And your brother? Is he a suspect?”
“He was home with his wife and new baby.”
“So that leaves you?”
“I guess.”
“Is there any more reason for them to suspect you other than process of elimination?”
He shrugged. I had a suspicion I wasn’t getting the full story. “You gotta tell me everything. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to help you or not, but I’m sure as hell not getting involved if you’re holding out on me.”
He sighed shakily. “My fingerprints were on the knife they found in the kitchen.”
I felt both my eyebrows fly up.
“Oh, come on. Not you, too. I was over here all the time for a while. I helped him cook dinner. Of course I touched his knives.”
“When did he…get inappropriate with you?”
“About a month ago.”
“And he didn’t wash his knife since then?”
“You see where cleaning fell on his list of priorities.”
“Not sweeping or emptying an ashtray is one thing; not washing your dishes for four weeks is something else altogether.”
“So you think I did it, too?”
“Well, you haven’t said you didn’t.”
“I didn’t kill him,” he shouted. “Why would you be here if I did? I want you to prove I’m innocent.”
I shut the bedroom door. If he was going to start yelling, I didn’t want the neighbors to hear. “And how do you want me to do that?”
“Find who did kill him? I don’t know. That’s what you’re here for.”
“You’re not giving me much to work with.”
“What more do you need?”
“For starters, whatever it is you’re still not telling me.”
He deflated a bit as he ran out of bravado. “I came back.”
“When?”
“Last week. The night he was killed.”
“Why?”
“I was angry. He was acting like nothing had happened, calling me all the time, inviting me over for dinner. I didn’t answer, but he kept leaving messages on my phone.”
“What did you do when you got here?”
“Nothing. I mean, I yelled at him, told him he was a sick bastard. I told him I knew what he used to do to me and my brother when we were little kids. I warned him to stay the hell away from me or I’d go to the police. I…I just wanted him to leave me alone.”
“D
id anyone hear you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It was warm last week, so all the windows were open. One of the neighbors could have overheard.” He looked away. “I guess someone did, because they must have told the cops. When they took me in for questioning, they asked me about the fight.”
“Where were you yelling?”
“In the front room.”
“And the knife?”
“He…he came at me. I was afraid. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the knife. It was on the counter. I told him to stay away from me.” He choked back a sob. “I swear I didn’t kill him.”
“What did he do?”
“He left.”
“Front door or back?”
“Back.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I left.”
“Front or back?”
“Front. Why?”
“We’ll get to that. And the knife?”
“I left it there.”
“On the counter?”
“I guess. I don’t really remember. I was pretty upset.”
He was still pretty upset. Tears kept on rolling down his cheeks. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I moved toward him, and he practically threw himself into my arms.
While I stood there holding a crying kid, I tried to work through his story. My gut told me he was telling the truth, but some things still didn’t add up. Someone could have easily heard the kid yelling at his grandfather, seen the kid leave through the front door, and…what? Plotted a murder to frame the kid? With the knife he’d conveniently left his prints all over? Too easy. Too pat. It was much more likely that whoever overheard the fight just called the police.
Maybe the kid really did off his abuelo and was just using me as a patsy. That didn’t make sense, though. As he kept insisting, if he’d done it, why involve me at all?
Most importantly, where was the stiff?
That was the strangest part. Why leave a bloody mess all over the house but hide the body? Sure, it’s harder to prosecute without a corpse, but it’s happened.
A slight scraping noise from the other part of the house suddenly distracted me from my thoughts. The kid, still sniffling into my chest, didn’t seem to hear it. I pulled away and placed a finger over his lips before he could say anything. He gave me a confused look. I jerked my head toward the door, and comprehension and fear flooded his face.
Before I could formulate a plan, the doorknob started turning. I left the kid standing wide-eyed in the middle of the room and flattened myself against the wall behind the door.
Someone came into the room, and the kid gasped. “Wha…what? I thought…”
“You thought I was dead?” The man took another step into the room, and I saw him clearly for the first time. He’d aged, his hair had turned iron gray, but I still recognized the missing Bulldog I’d seen in the photo. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“But…what? How?”
“It takes more than a coupla cuts to get rid of me.” He chuckled, but it was a dry husk of a laugh, no humor or warmth to be found.
“But there was so much blood…”
He snorted. “I guess I’m a bleeder.” He held up his hands, which were wrapped in dirty bandages. “So are you here to finish the job, or did you decide to come back for more?” He rubbed his crotch suggestively, and my stomach turned.
The kid hadn’t been completely honest with me. Maybe I should’ve figured that out, but I certainly hadn’t seen zombie grandpa coming. So far, he hadn’t noticed me, which was just how I wanted it.
Grandpa took another step forward, and the kid inched away until the bed caught him behind the knees and he fell onto the dirty mattress. Grandpa chuckled again. “Right where I want you. This time we’ll finish what I started.”
As he advanced on the cowering boy, I scooped up the cast-iron dog and clobbered the old man on the head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
I stood looking down at the unconscious abuelo and shook my head. “This is going to be a mess to explain.”
*
Much later that morning, I was still enjoying my afterglow as the sun started lighting up the sky with its own glow. We’d spent hours at the police station explaining our way out of the situation. There was a small chance the kid might get charged with assault, but since it was a clear case of self-defense, nothing would come of it even if it happened. Even a trained monkey would be able to get the case dropped—not that most of the public defenders in this town were much better than trained monkeys.
We’d celebrated our release by heading back to his apartment for a little release of our own. I was completely exhausted and ready for nothing more but to fall asleep, but I realized the kid was staring at me, his head resting on my bare chest. Nothing good could come of this.
He ran a hand through my chest hair. “Any chance this won’t be a one-night stand?”
I groaned. “Nope. None.”
He poked his bottom lip out, and I thought about biting it again. “But I like you.”
“Thanks. I like you, too.”
“Then why can’t we at least try dating?”
“Ah, hell, kid. Can’t you find anybody your own age to play with?”
“You’re not that much older than me.”
“I’m old enough to be your”—I did some quick math in my head and didn’t like the results—”your much older brother.”
He sat up. “You can’t deny the sex was great.”
“I’m not denying anything. Why would you even want to date someone my age?”
“I’m tired of younger guys. They’re all so…immature. All they want is sex. You’re older, wiser, and stable.”
“You got one right, at least.” I slipped out from under him and started to pull on my pants.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Have a great life, kid.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll send you the bill. I accept all major credit cards.”
He tried pouting again, but it wasn’t working anymore. Not too much anyway. When I started buttoning up my shirt, he rolled his eyes. “Fine. What about cash? Will you take a personal check?”
“Look, kid—”
“Or I can think of a few other ways to pay off my debt…” He pushed the sheets down a little lower, and I missed a button. “Come back to bed. I’m sure we can work something out.”
I know a decent offer when I hear one.
Imago Blue
Felice Picano
When he opened his eyes upon a seamless, all-enveloping, pale lilac light he immediately realized that he knew for certain these four things:
He was alive.
His name was Blue Andresson.
His official vocation was Investigator: privately established, financed, and (as a rule) client-paid; specializing in Difficult Interpersonal Relations and Potentially Criminal Conflicts.
And lastly, if he reached his hand out he would encounter—while his elbow was still slightly flexed—the surface of a soft, protective Heal-All within which he had been enclosed, and which had served to return him back to full physiological health over an unknown period of time, while he was seriously injured or chronically ill, and which a thrust-out fingernail would easily rip open.
There was one other thing he wished he knew but did not: What was he doing inside a Heal-All in the first place?
There would be time enough for that. His sense of his body odor was growing stronger by the second from long enclosure and he must get away from it. He reached out his right hand, struck the smooth surface, tore at it, and it collapsed all about him with a soft hiss.
Instantly a soft chiming began somewhere below the plinth upon which he lay.
He tried to sit up and found it difficult: His muscles wouldn’t work, not even supported by his hands. He tried again and felt slightly nauseated.
The room around him was an even softer lilac color, nearly pearl; its surfaces were smooth, indistinguishably similar, at lea
st from this level and position.
He tried to sit up again and this time achieved an inch or two of head height. His body was unclothed and the Heal-All’s therapeutic dews were quickly drying in the ambient warming air. His chest hair was sparse, golden; his abdomen flat, muscled, his legs were long and also golden haired, his feet were large and personable.
A fourth attempt to sit up got him onto his elbows facing his large perfect toes, and what he now saw, since it slid open with a whoosh, was a door, through which three completely clothed and hooded figures stepped and immediately came to his side.
“You’re awake, Mr. Andresson? How do you feel? Not too disoriented, we hope?” said One.
“You must be thirsty. And hungry too, I’m guessing,” said Two.
He was. And nodded so.
“Your personal secretary has been notified,” said Three. “You’re unexpectedly early and she is out of town on her own business and can be here in a few hours. Should we contact her? Or a friend or relative? Your mother is listed as next of kin. There is as well as a relationship that might have been as close as fiancée before your injury.”
A slight transparent tube arrived from out of nowhere right at his lips and he received a delicious cold drip of water that he then sucked at greedily. After which he said, “No. Thank you, don’t bother anyone,” somehow surprised by the deepness of his voice (was it because of this resonant little enclosed chamber?). “In fact, my secretary need not hurry back if she doesn’t have to. I’d prefer her to finish her business already begun.”
What he wanted more than anything else was time, he’d already decided. Because now there was another unanswered question: “How long have I been here? In the Medical Cocoon?”
“Close to a year”: One.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Andresson, you were very seriously injured”: Two.
“You’re fine now. Perfect, in fact”: Three.
No, I’m not, Blue thought. I don’t remember things. Things I believe I ought to remember.
The plinth tilted slowly and a shelf came out at his feet. He realized he was being stood up.