Sky's Shadow

by Ted Galdi

  “I can stick them in the dishwasher.”

  “Broke.”

  He rests the plates and mugs on the counter, opens the dishwasher, and peeks inside. “What’s wrong with it?”

  She enters the kitchen. “Hasn’t been draining.”

  “Is your drain hose connected to your garbage disposal?”

  She laughs. “No idea.”

  “Hose is probably clogged. I’ll have a look.” He gets on his knees, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and eyeballs the piping.

  “You don’t have to do that, Tommy. I’ve been meaning to call a repairman. Will today.”

  “They come to a nice house in a nice neighborhood, they’ll start ringing up the bill. I’ll knock it out. Simple.”

  “Is this the sort of work you do?”

  A pause. “No…nothing like that. Just…have a knack for it.”

  “Thank you. Really. If you want more coffee, there’s still half a pot.”

  “Cool. Do you guys have a pantry with household supplies, basic tools, that sort of thing?”

  “Hallway. Second door on your left.”

  He gives her a thumbs-up. She leaves the room. He turns on the garbage disposal. Listens for any irregularity. Then grabs a wrench and bottle of Drano from the pantry. A bit later, the dishwasher is fixed. He cleans his hands, pours a fresh cup of coffee, and finds Val in the den.

  She sits at a table topped with a piece of poster board surrounded by glue and glitter. “What’s this for?” he asks.

  “Our thirtieth anniversary is next week.”

  “Congrats.” A moment. “Is that the right word you say to someone for an anniversary? Is it congrats or another one?”

  “Nowadays, with all the split-ups, I guess congrats is more apt than ever. We rented out a room in the back of our favorite restaurant the Saturday after next, having some friends and family for a little get-together. Figure I’ll put this up inside.”

  Tommy glimpses the collage photos, Val and Clyde in various settings over the years, the Caribbean, Disneyworld, a ski resort, seven or eight others. A son with them in some. About Tommy’s age.

  “Curly,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “One sec.” She grabs the oldest-looking album, flips through it. And points at a picture of her and Clyde in their early twenties with friends at a nightclub. Clyde poses in a flashy suit and sunglasses. His hair is done into a Jerry curl.

  “There you go,” Tommy says. “All that hair. Oh, man. What happened?”

  “You’ll like this. The Jerry curl was already out of style for about five years when this picture was taken. His pals all have hi-tops, see? I guess Clyde was too busy studying back then to notice.”

  “Look at him. Look at how cool he’s trying to come off. All with an outdated haircut. Thank you for this.”

  Tommy feels a vibration on his leg. He takes out his phone. A text from Josh:

  You alive T? I’m worried. Hit me back.

  Tommy was so wiped last night, he passed out as soon as his body touched a bed. And still hasn’t returned Josh’s four missed calls.

  “Excuse me,” he tells Val. “I’ve got a call to make.”

  “Sure. Any luck in the kitchen?”

  “You’re good to go.”

  “You fixed it? Already?”

  He grins.

  “Clyde needs to bring you around more often,” she says.

  He climbs the stairs, turns into the guest bedroom, and calls Josh.

  “He lives,” Josh says. “Or is this a Mexican gangster who confiscated his phone?”

  “Other way around. I got his phone.”

  “How did it go down?”

  “It was…insane. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to New York.”

  “When’s that?”

  Tommy closes the door. “I told Clyde I was going to fly out tomorrow morning. But—”

  “Who’s Clyde?”

  “One of the FBI agents. I’m at his crib. They plan to run the rest of the investigation by standard procedure. If so, it’s doomed. I need—”

  “Sounds like the plan worked last night. Sounds like this guy Clyde is pretty competent.”

  “So…what’s your point?”

  “So…what’s the problem?”

  “Last night’s plan was anything but standard.”

  “And they went along with it. Like I said.”

  “Fine. You were right about that.”

  “And I bet they actually care about catching Danielle’s killers. Was I right about that too?”

  “Why’re you acting like a prick?”

  “You’re lucky you got out of Mexico alive. And by the tone of your voice, I’m sensing you’re still not going to drop this vigilante thing.”

  “Clyde and Jordana are legit. You were right. Okay? But they’re not the issue. Now that they’re back in the office, they’re rejoining the…bureaucratic machine. Organizational bias against victims like Danielle is just as real now as it was before Mexico. The system will dismiss her…the same way it’s dismissed…you know…so many other good people.”

  “You mean, the same way you feel it’s dismissed you?”

  “This isn’t about me.” Tommy gazes out the window, an older man gardening in one next-door backyard, a fit woman doing yoga in the other.

  “’Kay,” Josh says. “It’s not about you at all.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “To do what?”

  “Find out who’s behind all this.” Tommy hangs up. “Jackass.”

  Twenty-Two

  At the San Diego Veterans Affairs Hospital, Dr. Glen Brent hovers above a patient whose appendix just burst. With little time to perform an appendectomy before the infectious condition peritonitis turns lethal.

  He says, “Knife.” Nurse Peggy Wiggins, a freckle-faced, curly-red-haired woman of about forty, his compatriot through years of operations, hands him the instrument.

  Her eyes, a trace of flirtation in them, meet his. He is quite certain she is in love with him. Probably just a wink from him and they could be having sex within the hour at a nearby motel. He imagines she’d smell like apples naked. Which turns him on for some reason. But he’d never cheat on Cora.

  He moves his gaze back down to the patient, inserting the tip of the blade into the man’s lower-right abdomen, a worm of blood wriggling out.

  “Another operation that could’ve been avoided,” Glen tells her. “If he just saw a doctor on a regular basis. Any MD could’ve diagnosed and treated the appendicitis before rupture.”

  “I checked his chart. Hasn’t seen a general practitioner in years.”

  “Fricking VA makes it near impossible for a vet to book even a routine checkup.”

  “And most aren’t well-off surgeons like you, can’t afford private treatment. We’re all they’ve got. Shame.”

  “Not our fault. It’s those shortsighted, self-serving buffoons in Washington. They spent billions on wars after Nine Eleven, yet didn’t consider the healthcare burden after wounded participants hobbled home.”

  He maneuvers his rubber-sheathed index finger into the patient’s incision, feeling for the base of the appendix. He cuts it off the large intestine, extracts it from the body, and cleans out the abdominal cavity with a saline solution.

  The stabilized vet is wheeled to recovery. Glen peels off his scrubs, exits the operating room, and walks through the corridor, younger hospital workers greeting the passing senior-level surgeon with respectful nods. He moves through the hectic crowd with agility despite his prosthetic right foot, the result of a Desert Storm injury.

  He enters his office. A wall full of diplomas, military distinctions, and civic awards. He locks the door, and unlocks the drawer where he stashes the burner phone he’s been communicating on the last six months.

  He calls an associate. When he tried the number the last few days, it wasn’t answered. He left a voicemail yesterday, still not returned. Now the number doesn’t even ring, as if the ph
one is off. He hangs up.

  Glen understands why his associate might want some distance from him, but ignoring him, denying him a chance to communicate, is unacceptable behavior. He collects his wallet and keys. And sets out for a surprise meeting in Tijuana.

  Twenty-Three

  “Hey,” Tommy says from the Gabors’ doorway into the den.

  Val looks up from her collage. “Yeah?”

  “I was trying to find flights to New York on my phone, but on the small screen it’s difficult to compare all the different times and prices. I noticed in the room upstairs with all the basketball stuff there was a computer. Guessing it’s Clyde’s. You think he’d mind if I used it?”

  “That old desktop, no. Go for it.”

  “Happen to know the password?”

  “Lakers. Like the LA Lakers. Capital L. Then five, two, nine.”

  “Cool. Thank you.” He returns upstairs and enters a study, on one wall a shelf filled with trophies from the San Diego Youth Basketball Association, on the opposite wall a whiteboard with hand-drawn plays.

  Tommy sits at a desk, covered in Post-it notes with reminders Clyde’s left for himself. He keys in the password. By this morning Clyde’s friend Gary in Computer Forensics should be emailing him a file of all the burner phone’s content. If Tommy could access Clyde’s inbox, he could open the message and see the data.

  He navigates to the web browser’s list of recent visits, selects Gmail. He eyeballs today’s received messages in Clyde’s inbox. One with a subject line about an electric bill, another a college reunion, a few more. Nothing from anyone named Gary.

  Tommy folds his arms. He peeks at the time in the corner of the computer screen, already past ten AM. Gary likely sent Clyde the contents. Just not to this personal Gmail address, rather his FBI one.

  Tommy searches the computer for an FBI email application, but finds none. He figures if Clyde ever needs to work from home, he brings back a laptop from the office, doesn’t rely on the old desktop.

  “Shit,” Tommy says. He spins in the swivel chair, facing the whiteboard of basketball plays. And considers how to approach this challenge.

  He gets up and enters the guest bedroom. He opens the window, gazes down at the mid-sixties man gardening next door.

  “Hi there,” Tommy calls to him.

  The neighbor, using his canvas-gloved hand as a visor, peers up at him. “Hi. Need something?”

  “I’m a friend of the Gabors. In town for a couple days. Just wanted to tell you I noticed your garden. A real beaut.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you, young man.”

  “No problem. I’m Tommy by the way. You?”

  “Peter.”

  “Keep up the good work, Peter. See ya.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  Tommy closes the window. Step one complete. Now on to step two.

  He goes downstairs, asks Val, “How’s the collage coming?”

  “Getting there. What do you like better for the words at the top, thirty years of cheer or anniversary glee?”

  “Eh. Don’t love either, not gonna lie. How about a heart with Clyde, a little plus sign, and Val in it? Like they carve into trees.”

  “Ooh, that can work.”

  “Speaking of Clyde, he just texted me.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, totally. A couple of the agents have some questions for me about my sister’s past. He wants me to come in. I forgot to ask him where he sits. He’s not writing me back, probably in a meeting. Did you ever visit him in the office?”

  “Fourth floor. Toward the corner. It would be…the southwest one. Not all the way in it, but near it, in one of the cubicle thingies.”

  He smiles. “Thanks.”

  On to step three.

  Twenty-Four

  Glen cruises through Tijuana in his Mercedes. An audiobook plays from the speakers. Shield of Armatron, the seventh installment of a fantasy series featuring the brave and noble Prince Troy. Each book is about a different evil force trying to destroy his country. This one involves a demon who casts a famine spell on Prince Troy’s people. Glen is up to the part where the prince and his worthy allies transport themselves to the demon’s realm to confront him.

  Glen turns onto a pothole-dented street. Idles in front of his associate’s brown-roofed house. Waits until the chapter is done. Then shuts off his engine and paces to the door. An image in the window grabs his attention.

  He peeks into the space between the curtains. He doesn’t see his associate. Rather, three other Latinos who dress like him, probably in Los Hombres del Vacio too. On his knees in front of them is a fourth man about thirty years older. He is crying.

  Glen, fluent in Spanish, hears them talking in the language. He steps closer to the window. “Please, don’t do this,” the one on the floor says.

  One of the gangsters pulls a girl, about nineteen, off a chair. He holds a razor blade inches from her face. And tells the man on the floor, “This is what happens when you place bets you can’t pay back, you broke-ass bitch.”

  “She wasn’t a part of this.”

  “This isn’t about her. It’s about you. This is good for you, old man. Every time you look at her face after I’m done with her, you’ll be reminded to never make another bet you can’t honor.”

  “I’m sorry. Please, do it to me. Not my daughter. You can’t—”

  “If the bets went the other way and you made money, you’d likely spend some of it on your daughter, wouldn’t you? Maybe some new shoes. A new phone. Show her what a big man you are. Am I right?”

  “I…maybe. I never thought—”

  “Are you a bad father? You’d keep the winnings all to yourself you greedy dickhead?” The other two gangsters laugh.

  The father says, “No. I’d buy her something nice.”

  “That’s what I thought. So if she could be involved in the upside, she could be involved in the downside, no?”

  The father cries for a while. Then yells, “You are despicable. All of you. Just because you bribe the cops and get away with this stuff for now, doesn’t mean you will forever. You’re all going to hell.”

  “Hell doesn’t exist.” The gangster with the razor locks an arm around the girl’s neck. “What should I do first? Play tic-tac-toe against myself on her forehead or cut off her lips?”

  Glen has seen enough. He marches to the door and bangs on it. In a few seconds the gangbanger with the razor opens it. “Who’re you?” he asks in Spanish.

  “An associate of Carlos Ayala,” Glen replies in the same language. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Carlos Ayala…doesn’t live here anymore. Are you trying to mess with me?”

  Glen sticks his head through the doorway, asks the girl, “Are you all right?”

  The gangster shoves his face back outside. “Get out of here.”

  “You should let her go.”

  “Suck my cock.” He slams the door.

  Muscular, six-foot-two Glen stops it with his shoulder. Rams his way into the house. He hears the click of pistols. Sees the two other gangbangers aiming at him. Since firearms aren’t permitted from the US into Mexico, Glen came down unarmed, and raises his hands in indication.

  “You got some balls,” the one with the razor says.

  Glen hears the front door slam shut. “I didn’t come here for any trouble. I came to give Carlos Ayala a big bag of money, double what he usually gets for a job. But this…what you’re about to do to her. I want you to reconsider. It’s wrong.”

  “There is no wrong in the world,” the one with the blade says. “Or right. The world is just filled with people trying to get what they want. And other people trying to stop them. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. That’s all there is.”

  “Please…reconsider.”

  “Or what?”

  Glen eyeballs the gunmen’s sideways aim of their weapons, ragtag form likely picked up from the streets. They may have him outnumbered, but surely don’t have him out-
skilled.

  He kicks the one behind him. Hears his body knock into the wall. Glen drops to his back, thrusts himself toward him, and clasps his wrist. He snaps it, the crack of the bone audible, and snatches his pistol.

  The other gunman re-aims at him. Before he can fire, Glen sweeps his legs, toppling him. Then drives the heel of his shoe into his chin.

  “Get out of here,” Glen screams to the girl. She dashes toward the door.

  The one with the blade peers at him with panic in his face. Glen blasts a bullet between his eyes. He falls into the chair. Dead. Glen hands the girl the gun. “Take this for protection.”

  “Thank you, mister.” She opens the door. Darts outside. Glen runs out behind her.

  A bullet whizzes past his head, hitting his Mercedes. He scopes his six o’clock. The gangster whose legs he swept is back on his feet, blood oozing from his mouth. He storms outside.

  Glen sprints across the street. Cuts around the corner of a house into an alley, a fence to his left, a line of adobe homes his right.

  A gunshot. A chalky puff in the air as the bullet whacks a house. He picks up a metal trashcan and hurls it backward at the chasing gangbanger, loose garbage spilling onto Glen, a chunk of pork hitting his lips.

  He reaches the edge of the alley. Makes a right onto the sidewalk. The lone pedestrian in view, a boy in a backpack, gawks at the man covered in trash. Glen hustles toward an active cross street about a hundred feet ahead. His left shoulder twists. Then heats up from the core, as if a hot coal were packed inside. A splatter of blood on his polo shirt’s sleeve. He’s been shot.

  He pelts toward an Isuzu Trooper at a stop sign. He blocks the vehicle’s path and yells at its driver in Spanish, “Get out.”

  The driver lifts his forearms over his face and says in the same language, “Don’t hurt me. I’ll give you my wallet. Whatever you want.”

  Glen pulls on the door handle. Locked. He elbows the driver-side window. The glass stays intact. He hunches over and removes his prosthetic foot. Hears a bullet zing over his head. Shatters the Isuzu’s window with the foot’s metal connective rod.