Blood and Bone

by William Lashner

  "Stop being cute."

  "I can't help it," said Kyle, smiling. "I was born this way."

  Ramirez stared for a bit and couldn't stop herself from laughing. He was cute, and he knew it, which didn't obviate the fact that he was playing it way too cute for his own good.

  "Did I see who I thought I saw coming out of the bar a few minutes before you?" said Ramirez.

  "Who did you think you saw?"

  "Who do you think I saw?"

  "Who do you think I think you—"

  "Can we get on with this?" said Henderson. "The two of you are giving me a headache."

  "We've got a United States senator involved in our murder case," said Ramirez. "How do you like them apples, Henderson?"

  "I don't," said Henderson. "It means this peckerhead's got us mixed up in something explosive enough to put my pension at risk."

  "You wouldn't want to risk Henderson's pension, would you, Kyle?" said Ramirez.

  "No, ma'am."

  "So let me do some guessing here, just off the top of my head. Your father had something going on with Truscott before he was a senator. Your father died in 1994, right? That was when the senator was running for Congress the first time, if I'm not mistaken."

  "I don't follow politics."

  "You follow it enough to know that there was something of interest to a United States senator in the file cabinet your father hid in the basement of your old house. It was probably of interest enough to get your house and your car torched. And whatever was in that cabinet was of interest enough to said U.S. senator for His Eminence to show up at a dive like this. How am I doing?"

  "Not bad for a cop."

  She didn't like that comment, and she let him know it with a glare. "A shame about the Datsun. Was it insured?"

  "At some point it was, I suppose."

  "The breadth of your stupidity is astounding. Ever hear of a guy named Spangler?"

  "No. I don't think . . . Wait. Spangler?"

  "That's right."

  "A lawyer?"

  "That's the one. How do you know him?"

  "I don't," said Kyle. "But I think my father might have known him."

  "Pretty damn well, I'd bet. You see, we think this Spangler might have killed Laszlo Toth. And his face and hands were covered with something that might have been burns, maybe from your house. And he was waiting outside this bar with what appeared to be a bagful of firepower, looking, we guess, for you."

  "Where is he now?"

  "We thought we had him, but he disappeared."

  "Nice work."

  "It would have been easier," said Henderson, "if we knew even a little of what the hell was going on. And the reason we don't is because you've been telling us squat."

  Kyle looked at Henderson and then at Ramirez. "Why do you say he knew my father pretty damn well?"

  "Kyle, we want to impress upon you how dangerous your situation has become," said Henderson. "We think whatever you found in that file cabinet might have gotten Toth killed, and maybe your father, too."

  "He died of a heart attack," said Kyle.

  "That's what the death certificate reads," said Ramirez. "But it was signed by a New Jersey doctor who was convicted of falsifying death records for an embalming factory that processed bodies for a load of funeral parlors in the tristate area. The embalming house was selling body parts and made them more attractive by altering the death certificates. Your father was cremated, right?"

  "Yes," said Kyle, looking distracted.

  "So maybe it wasn't a heart attack. Maybe he was murdered by this Spangler character and then shipped up there for his death certificate to be faked and his parts sold. Anyone in the funeral business could have set it up. What you found in that file cabinet would put you next on this guy's list."

  "If you want our help," said Henderson, "it's time to come clean. What did you find, son?"

  "Nothing."

  "You know that blackmail is against the law."

  "That's not what I'm doing."

  "Then what the hell are you doing?"

  "I'm not so sure anymore," said Kyle.

  He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, closed his eyes, leaned his mouth on his thumbs. As Ramirez stared, she could see him thinking something through. Then the blood seemed to drain from his face. So they'd finally scared the little bastard, thought Ramirez. She was a bit saddened, actually. She had liked his unflappability, had liked that his wide and wicked smile seemed impervious to fear. It hadn't seemed so much foolish as foolhardy, which was a different thing entirely. But now he was just another scared little rat in over his head. Why were men always such disappointments?

  "Am I under arrest?" said Kyle finally.

  "No," said Ramirez. "But we'll protect you, if that's what you're asking. We promise. Tell us what you know, and we'll take care of you."

  "No, I mean am I free to leave?"

  "You want to go? Even with that murderer out there hunting for you?"

  "I have something I need to do."

  "Your laundry?" said Ramirez. "Family business."

  "Don't be a fool, son," said Henderson. "Let us protect you."

  "Thank you for your concern. It touches my heart, truly. But there is something I need to do right now. Am I free to go?"

  Ramirez looked at Henderson. Henderson shrugged.

  "Yes, you're free to go," said Ramirez wearily.

  "Then that's what I'm going to do," said Kyle.

  Henderson shook his head as he rose from the booth, making way for Kyle to leave. "It's your funeral."

  "At least he's dressed for it," said Ramirez.

  "Thank you, both," said Kyle, sliding out and standing. "Yo, Skitch."

  "Bro?" said Kyle's squat friend who'd been hiding behind the bar. "I need your bike."

  "But I'm using it tonight. I'm hooking up with that girl from Jersey, and we got—"

  "Give him the bike," said the bartender. "When will I get it back?"

  "Hell only knows," said Kyle.

  "Bro?"

  "Dude."

  "Crap," said the kid as he reached into his pocket and threw a set of keys that Kyle snatched out of the air. "Take care of my baby."

  "Don't worry, I'll treat it like it was my own."

  "After what happened to your 280ZX, why don't I find that comforting?"

  Kyle turned again to Ramirez. "You got a phone number, Detective?"

  She leaned back, narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, I have a phone number."

  "You want to give it to me?"

  "I'm not sure," said Ramirez. She looked up at Kyle and saw the smile and felt it slice into her with its sweetness. He scratched his cheek as if to signal that she had something on her own, and she couldn't help but wipe at it with the edge of her thumb.

  "Let him have it," said Henderson. And as Ramirez took out a card and handed it to Kyle, Henderson added, "You call us if you need us, son. We'll be waiting."

  "Thank you," said Kyle as he put the card into his jacket pocket. After Kyle left, Ramirez looked at the closed door and said, "What do you think?"

  "I think we'll be on duty tonight," said Henderson. "And poor little me, I was planning on going bowling."

  "He has no idea what he's gotten himself into."

  "I'm not so sure about that," said Henderson. "He strikes me as someone who has every idea of what he's gotten himself into."

  "I'm worried about him."

  "I know you are," said Henderson. "It's why you followed the lead he gave you and traced that number and found that Spangler and kept your eye on him all the while we were putting this operation in place. Because you were worried about him. This Byrne kid is not just a piece of a puzzle, is he?"

  "No."

  "See there, Ramirez, now you're making me cranky."

  "Why? Because partnering with me, you actually have to do some work?"

  "No. I just get cranky when my expectations are confounded. And here all along I thought you'd never make it as a detective."

  C
HAPTER 50

  UNCLE MAX WAS SITTING at the bar of the Olde Pig Snout, smoking a cigarette, nursing a beer, watching the local news on the television as his life ticked away swallow by swallow. When the door opened, he palmed his cigarette and turned his head to get a look at who was walking in. He instinctively smiled when he saw it was Kyle. And then the smile froze on his face, as if something in his nephew's eyes made it clear that this was not simply a sweet familial visit.

  "Kyle, what a surprise," said Max. "And in a suit, no less. Who died?"

  "No one," said Kyle. "Yet."

  "Want a drink?"

  "We need to talk."

  "What, you dress like that just to break up with me?"

  "Over there," said Kyle, pointing to a booth. "Sure thing, Kyle. No problem. Let me get us a round, first." Max waved Fred the bartender over. Fred smiled crookedly. "How you doing there, Kyle?"

  "Not so good," said Kyle. "What happened?" said Fred.

  "I've been betrayed," said Kyle.

  Max's head swung toward Kyle as if his ear had been yanked, but Fred just kept on nodding and smiling. "Good, good. You still playing ball?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Just keep swinging. Anything I can get you?"

  "A beer."

  "Two," said Max. "With a couple shooters." Max glanced back at Kyle's stone face. "On my tab."

  "Good," said Fred. "So everything's good, Kyle?"

  "Yeah," said Kyle. "Everything's just swell."

  "Good," said Fred. "That's good."

  "Have you ever noticed," said Kyle when they were in a booth with their drinks, "that no matter how terrible the news, Fred always tells you how good everything is?"

  "That's about the extent of his charm," said Max, "but somehow I find it comforting. Everything's always good at the Olde Pig Snout, except the food, the beer and the company. So what climbed up your butt?"

  Kyle looked away, let his eyes harden, and then turned back to stare at his Uncle Max. "I want to know," he said, his teeth clenched, his voice suddenly low and hard, "how you could do it to my mother. Forget about me, a twelve-year-old kid forced to go to his father's fake funeral, forget about how your little trick twisted my life into knots. I want to know how you could do it to my mother, your sister, how you could do it to her."

  Max stared at Kyle for a long moment, lit a cigarette, took a draw, downed his shot while smoke leaked out his nose, and then promptly burst into tears. It was not a tidy little cry, it was red and wet and full of sob and self-fury. Max's cheeks burned, his bulbous nose turned red and ran, his beady little eyes squeezed out bucketfuls, and in the middle of it he slammed his forehead on the table once and then again, before grabbing Kyle's shot, downing that, too, and sobbing some more.

  Kyle was unmoved.

  "I thought," said Max, his broken voice coming in gasps as the sobs stole his breath, "I thought . . . I was doing the . . . right thing."

  "How could a betrayal like that ever be the right thing?"

  "Because . . . because . . . because he was no damn good for her," said Max, catching his breath now between words. "Because he seduced her and impregnated her and then just left her there in that crappy little house. And she wouldn't move on, she wouldn't date, she wouldn't do anything but wait for him. It broke my heart."

  "So you faked his death."

  "I helped him do it. Yeah, I admit it. But she was still pretty, still young. I thought with him out of the way, she'd find someone new. I thought you'd end up with a real father. I thought—"

  "You thought wrong."

  "I know. God, I know. But she deserved better. And so did you. You don't know how many times I tried to set her up. She wasn't interested. She did nothing but mourn the bastard. And you did nothing but mourn him, too. And every time I saw you both after that, it broke my heart."

  "Fuck you and your broken heart," said Kyle.

  "You're right."

  "Just go to hell."

  "Okay, I will."

  "Good."

  Max pulled his cigarette to his lips with shaking hands, took a drag, and then wiped his eyes with his other palm. Kyle drank from his beer and looked away.

  "Is that it?" said Max. "No."

  "There's more?"

  "Yeah."

  "Christ. Okay, whatever you want, Kyle. I'll do anything. Anything to make it up to you."

  "You can't."

  "I know."

  "Damn right you know."

  "I was afraid you might find out when you started nosing around into what happened to your dad."

  "Then why'd you tell me to look?"

  "Because I wanted you to know what he was really like, to take your blinders off."

  "You put them there when you fake-killed him."

  "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know?" Pause. "How'd you find out anyway?"

  Kyle searched for some suspicion in Max's eyes, found nothing but Max's own tortured memories. "A cop," Kyle said.

  "Jesus. Are they coming after me?"

  "No, they just think my father was murdered and the certificate was forged to hide the fact. But I figure if you were involved, there was no murder. You're a jerk, but you're not a killer."

  "You got that right. Of everything I am, I'm not that."

  "I still have some questions, though."

  "Okay. Sure. Whatever you want to know."

  "How did it happen? When exactly did you guys start planning this thing?"

  "Can I get another beer before I tell you?"

  "No."

  "Please?"

  "Talk."

  "Okay," said Max. "It started when I still had my truck and was working for the funeral home. They had me delivering these bodies up to some place in Jersey for embalming. I could tell that something was wrong, there was too many bodies going up, and it was too hush-hush. So I did some asking and found out they was stealing body parts and faking death certificates. The whole thing scared the hell out of me. So I decided to talk it out with a lawyer."

  "My dad."

  "Yeah, well, he was available, and he wouldn't charge me, you know. I told him everything, and he told me to quit, but I ignored him and kept driving, because . . . hell, the money was good. I thought that was the end of it. But then, later, he came back to me with some questions."

  "When was this?"

  "A week or so before the funeral. Over the phone. And then he mentioned the possibility of him getting one of them fake death certificates."

  "Did he tell you why?"

  "He said he was in this real-estate thing, with a partner who was going to dissolve the partnership with a gun. And he had fallen into something that might be real money, but he didn't know if he'd be alive to keep it. And there was other stuff. He just wanted to get away. I asked about you, and his Frenchie wife. He said he had taken out insurance, that everyone would be better off. I told him he was crazy. I told him to forget about it. But then . . ."

  "He offered you money."

  "Yeah."

  "How much?"

  "Does it matter? I didn't do it for the money. I did it to get him the hell out of her life. Kyle, he was no damn good, I'm telling you. Anyone who would run like he did . . . well, I thought you was both better off without him."

  "So when you put the file cabinet in the house, you already knew he was going to fake his death and run away."

  "Yeah, he just wanted some stuff kept safe for after. Just in case."

  "How much did he pay you for the whole thing?"

  "Fifteen."

  "In cash?"

  "Yeah."

  "You sold yourself cheap, Max. Did he pay you up front?"

  "Nah. I wanted it that way, but he said he was working on a couple things and could only make the payment right at the time. So he gave me the envelope on the ride up. My share and the twenty the doctor demanded. Thickest envelope I ever got in my life. I had some dead alky's body in the back of the truck, someone who I was supposed to take to get dumped in some pauper's grave. I just did
the switcheroo and had them burn it. Simple as that."

  "Did my mother ever know?"

  "Nah. I tried telling her once, after I realized there wasn't going to be anyone else, but I chickened out. And then she got sick. And then what was the point?"

  "You sold her out, Max."

  "Kyle, I didn't do it for the money. I ended up giving her the fifteen anyway, and more. Plenty more."

  "Why?"

  "For you. She had too much pride to ever ask for anything for herself, but she'd swallow it to ask for you. And the insurance money she got was less than she needed to keep going. Those braces you got, when you busted your arm, the money you needed for school after the scholarship went kablooey."

  "She would rather have had my father than the money."

  "Kyle, it wasn't my idea. I just helped. He'd deserted her before, he was deserting her again. I thought finally getting rid of the creep would be good for her, is all. I'm sorry."

  "Yeah."

  "You don't know how sorry."

  "You're right, I don't." Kyle felt his anger subside and fought to keep it boiling. "You said there was other stuff that made him want to leave. What kind of other stuff?"

  "I don't know. Women stuff."

  "What are you talking about, Max?"

  "Well, you know, there was his wife and your mom and—"

  "Someone else?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. Does it matter? There was always someone else, that's just the way he was. And he said it was getting too complicated. He'd said he do them all a favor with the insurance and start over."

  "Is that what he said?"

  "Yeah."

  "He was a son of a bitch, wasn't he?"

  "That's what I been telling you. I thought it would work out for the best." Pause. "So we still good?"

  "No."

  "Okay. We're still not good," said Max. "We'll never be good." Kyle took a peek at his uncle. "Maybe not never."

  "Not never, maybe, but not for a while," said Max. "I know. I got it coming."

  "Damn right."

  "Damn right is right." Another drag. "How you doing, Kyle? Really."

  "I don't know. Good, I guess."

  "That's good."

  "Yeah."

  "It's good that you're doing good."

  "Yeah."

  "Good that everything's good."

  Kyle stared at his uncle for a moment, then turned his head to look at Fred, smiling like an idiot behind the bar. "You want to know something, Uncle Max? I hate this fucking place."