Definitely not what drove us apart.
I didn’t expect what came next. A real slap, her hand across my cheek, would not have been undeserved. Instead, she smiled and shifted in her chair so her back was to the copper-topped bar and both the man on her left and I were looking at her.
“Speaking of someone I wasn’t expecting to see in a thousand years,” she said.
“Hello, Suzanne,” I said.
“Hello, Andy.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not.”
After I pulled up beside her on her right, she leaned back and gestured to her companion. A few years older than me, dark hair flecked with gray, a full face but not fat, blue sport coat and white shirt, no tie. His expression was neutral bordering on hostile. I knew right away he knew who I was.
“Andy, this is Glen Murphy,” Suzanne said.
I nodded as I shook his hand. Grip firm but not hardy.
“Glen, this is Andy Hayes. As you probably know, he’s the world’s biggest asshole.”
As if on cue, the bartender materialized. I ordered a Great Lakes. I looked at Suzanne and after a moment she nodded. She wasn’t smiling any more.
“Martini,” I said. “Tanqueray, two olives, very, very dirty.”
“You remembered,” Suzanne said. “How sweet.”
I looked at Murphy. “I’m good,” he said, after a moment too long.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Suzanne said. “He’ll have another Lagavulin. But make it a double.”
“Excuse me,” Murphy said. “I think I’ll check on our reservations.”
He slid off the stool and without meeting my gaze walked along the bar to the front of the restaurant. I followed his progress, then turned back to Suzanne. She was wearing a French blue sleeveless dress with a hint of cleavage—as much as I knew her station would let her get away with—gold earrings, and a paste pearl necklace that accentuated possibly the world’s prettiest neck. Her honey-colored hair looked as perfect as if she’d stepped out of her condo five minutes ago, not spent the day traipsing around Columbus with a videographer in tow.
“You look great,” I offered.
“You fucking turd,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
It was a good question. And there was no going back now. Not after a double of Lagavulin I knew I was paying for.
“I need a favor.”
“A favor?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Afraid not,” I said.
“What kind of favor?”
“Aaron Custer,” I said.
“What about him.”
“I need some information about his case.”
“He killed three innocent college kids and almost crippled a fourth. What else is there to know?”
“I was hoping I could pick your brain. Ask you some questions.”
“Why?”
I told her about my assignment.
“And you want to talk to me why?”
“Because you owned the story.”
“Goddamn right I did. But how would you know that?”
“I kept up on the coverage.”
“You watched my reports.”
I nodded.
“And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“You always own your stories,” I continued. “The heroin pieces you’ve been doing. All the overdoses. The Mexican connection. It’s good stuff.”
“Suck up all you want. It doesn’t change anything.”
“Why I figured I’d come to you first,” I persisted. “You know the most.”
“Really? No other reason?”
For just a moment her blue eyes had gotten shiny. She turned away. When she swiveled back her eyes were dry and she looked furious. A few years ago, Suzanne had continued broadcasting live without breaking a sweat as gunfire broke out at the Poindexter Village public housing complex on the near east side. She was not used to losing control.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” she said.
I said nothing.
Our drinks arrived. The bartender looked for Murphy. I jerked my thumb toward the entrance, where Murphy had taken a seat at the far end of the bar. I laid two twenties and a ten down on the counter and shook my head when he asked if I needed change.
“A witness,” Suzanne said a moment later. “Someone who saw what happened.”
“What the grandmother says.”
“You believe her?”
“For now.”
“Because she’s paying you.”
“How this works.”
“Why don’t you call Kevin Harding at the Dispatch? Isn’t he your special friend? I recall seeing him every time I turned around on that story.”
“Kevin’s a good source,” I said. “But that’s the point.”
“What is?”
“You saw him every time you turned around. Because you got places first. Talked to people first. Got the documents first. And I believe you’ve got an Emmy and a Murrow to prove it.”
That earned me a twitch and possibly a fractional diminishing of her anger.
But then she said, “Of course, if the grandmother’s story is true, then I didn’t own the story. I got it totally wrong.”
“You owned the aftermath and the families and the plea deal and the lawsuit and everything. This doesn’t change any of that.”
“The fact Custer might be innocent doesn’t change anything? Have you traded down from Black Label to crack cocaine? It changes everything.”
“Might be innocent. I’m not saying he is.”
“Which didn’t stop you from taking the job.”
“You stop reporting every story that seems like a long shot?”
“Go to hell,” she said.
“I’m in the same boat. I don’t know right from wrong on this one. So I came to the one person who knows the most about the case in the city.”
“I’m tempted to say that’s about as sincere a statement as Charles Manson bringing flowers to Sharon Tate’s gravesite.”
“I deserved that,” I said. “But I’m still asking. It’s all I can do.”
“Fire department knows as much as I do,” she said. “Cops too.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “They turned on the TV to find out what they needed to know. Just like everybody else.”
Suzanne reached out and took a sip of her martini. I followed suit with my beer.
She said, “You remember the last time we were together?”
“I do.”
“You have anything to say to me?”
“I don’t.”
“No apology?”
“Would it matter?”
“Probably not.”
We left it at that. Sipped our drinks. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Murphy at the other end of the bar watching us.
Suzanne said, “So you just walk in here after all this time and ask for the stupidest goddamn favor possible and don’t apologize or even attempt to deal with the past. Is that it?”
“That’s about right,” I said. “I wish I could say something meaningful. Wish I could do something that would set things straight. But I know how I was and I know how it is. So all I can do is tell my pale ale here, and anybody else who might be listening, that I’m not quite the person I used to be, though I remember him well. And my semi-new self doesn’t know any other way to manage things but head on.”
“What a pretty speech.”
“With the benefit of being true.”
“I didn’t date for three years after you. Did you know that?”
I studied my beer.
“When I tried again I was damaged goods. ‘Didn’t you used to go out with Woody Hayes?’”
I kept studying.
“Glen’s the first man who’s stayed with me longer than a month. Though whether I’ve got another hour left with him is debatable, thanks to you.”
“He seems nice,�
� I lied. “What’s he do?”
“Businessman.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind that makes money.”
“Just asking.”
“Oil and gas. Satisfied?”
“Fracking?”
“The old-fashioned kind. Still plenty of money in it. Even in Ohio.”
“Drill, baby, drill,” I said, then immediately regretted it.
“Asshole,” she said.
“Sorry. That was unwarranted.”
“So thanks to you,” she continued, “I’m still dating at thirty-five when all my girlfriends are married and half have kids.”
I looked up the bar at Murphy, then went back to my beer. I knew she was lying about her age, and she knew I knew it, and somehow it broke the tension just a bit.
“I’m sorry you’re so angry,” I said.
“I’m angry because you’re such a shit.”
“A recovering shit.”
“Like that makes a difference.”
“Some people think so.”
She guessed right away. “You’re seeing someone,” she said.
“Starting to see someone.”
“Isn’t that nice.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m thinking ‘Senior Zumba Instructor,’” she said. The title emphasized with air quotes. “Blonde with a rack?”
Like you should talk, I thought, but kept my mouth shut for a change. “She’s a college professor. Our age.”
“Our age,” she said. “Nice touch. So what’s the catch? Is she married?”
“Widowed.”
This gave her pause, as I knew it would.
I took a drink of my beer. I said, quietly, “Can we get back to my favor?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I’m just starting to enjoy myself. Do you have any nicknames for her, like you did with me? Let’s see—is she more ‘fat cow’ or ‘dumb cunt’?”
I shut my eyes. I’d known starting out this was probably a bad idea. It was dawning on me I hadn’t anticipated just how bad.
I opened my eyes, looked up the bar. Took in the tall cabinet of wine bottles across from where Murphy sat.
I said, “We both know you’re the expert on this story. We also know I didn’t behave like a knight in shining armor when we were together.” She guffawed, and not nicely. I continued: “And we also know there’s nothing I can do to make up for the past short of giving you the exclusive while I commit hara-kiri live on TV. So why don’t you just tell me the level of fawning you need and I’ll provide it and then maybe we could reach an accord and I could get on with my questions.”
“Hara-kiri,” she said. “I like the sound of that.”
I waited.
“What’s in it for me?”
“I don’t know. What do you want?”
“I want the exclusive story, obviously. If there is one, which I doubt.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Then fuck you.”
“I can’t promise an exclusive because I have to talk to a lot of people. And I can’t promise they won’t talk.”
“That’s a piss-poor offer.”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep. Not anymore.”
“Woody Hayes, gentleman?” she snorted.
“Just Andy,” I said. “It’s Andy Hayes now.”
I left her and walked up to where Murphy sat, nursing his drink. Ignored the looks I got as I passed. I knew I exaggerated the likelihood that a lot of people in town recognized me anymore. Memories of a twenty-year-old college football point-shaving scandal faded, even in this city. It was a tinge of paranoia that one of these days I had to get over. But this was different. I knew I was being watched.
I stopped in front of Murphy. He didn’t turn to look at me.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening,” I said.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said after a moment.
“Is it as good as everybody says?”
“What?” he said, sharply.
“The Lagavulin. How is it?”
He relaxed. “It’s good,” he said. “Very good.”
I was turning to go when he said, “Anything I should be worrying about?”
“Excuse me?”
“You and Suzanne. Anything I need to know?”
“Nope,” I said. “You’re all set.”
“That’s good. Because I don’t need anything screwing this up. Including you.”
“There’s nothing—”
“Especially you,” Murphy said.
6
Walking home down the brick sidewalks of German Village, I considered the gulf between Suzanne and me. Considered the irony that Lindey’s was so close to my house, just a few minutes’ stroll, yet I hadn’t seen Suzanne in years now—by design. Considered the inadvisability of what I’d just done. Considered Anne’s and my planned movie date later that night and where my sudden reluctance to keep it was coming from.
After escorting the wounded Labrador into and out of the backyard, I cooked three of the Weiland’s brats on the small gas grill I keep on the patio, an optimistic description of a brick walk the size of a sandbox. While those cooked I boiled water, added salt, then dumped in a box of pasta. I checked my phone for updated headlines while I waited. State lawmakers were debating bills to name a state Indian burial mound, to honor the recent boys’ and girls’ state basketball championship teams, and to approve medical marijuana. Even I could figure out which of the three was going to die a quick death in committee. A few minutes later I sank into the couch with my plate and my copy of Old Hickory and Young America. I looked at the dust jacket and read Custer’s biography. Looked at his picture. He would have cast a long shadow, I thought, thinking of his son. His suicide. Best-selling author, legendary history professor. Ferocious tennis player well into his sixties, I recalled. Very long shadow indeed. I opened the book, read the first two chapters. I hadn’t been mistaken. Great read.
After dinner I set the dishes in the sink, pulled out my laptop, took it back to the couch, turned on the Blue Jackets game, set the TV on mute, and started looking up stories about the fire. I alternated between articles in the Dispatch, which tended to be longer, and Suzanne’s written versions for the Web, which were shorter but usually contained a more telling quote or detail. I printed everything out, which was a lot, highlighted relevant names, then settled in to learn as much as I could about the Orton Avenue disaster.
Victim One: Tina Montgomery. Ohio State University junior. Twenty-one years old. From Columbus. Biology major. Pretty brunette with a strong chin. Apartment house resident. Found in her upstairs bedroom, cause of death smoke inhalation. Importantly, a friend of Aaron’s from high school. Most importantly, the girl Aaron had been arguing with before he’d been given the bum’s rush.
Victim Two: Matt Cummings. Also an Ohio State junior. Twenty-two. From Coshocton, a small city in eastern Ohio. Environmental geology major. Short-cropped dark hair. Traces of acne, and teeth that could have used braces, but otherwise a good-looking kid. Resident of the house, found on the floor just outside his bedroom, also upstairs. It was his birthday the party had nominally been in honor of. That and the OSU game earlier that day. Most importantly, the guy who’d tossed Aaron.
Victim Three: Jacob Dunning. Also twenty-two. Also from Columbus. Biochemistry major. Red hair, freckles, manic grin, soul patch. Looked to be a good-natured joker. A visitor to the party but not a resident. Found badly burned downstairs just inside the front door. Cause of death a combination of burns and smoke inhalation.
Survivor: Helen Chen. From Worthington, an old Columbus suburb just north of Clintonville. Another biology major. Pre-med. One of Matt’s housemates. Hospitalized for weeks from her injuries, from what I could tell. Severe smoke inhalation. I saw something about a tracheotomy. It appeared she’d never been interviewed, by reporters or investigators. Too badly hurt.
From what I could tell, Suzanne had done reams of interviews with family members
and other students who’d been at the party. It was from her I learned that things could have been worse, that six other people also lived in the house but had gone on a last-minute overnight trip to Cleveland to see, of all people, Neil Diamond. Suzanne even managed an interview with Lori Hume, Matt’s girlfriend, who hadn’t stayed the night because she was getting up early to cheer on a friend at a cross-country meet and wanted to be at her own apartment.
Anne called at 8:00, begging off our movie because Amelia wasn’t feeling well. An edge to her voice that I knew full well stemmed from living with her parents, whose home she’d retreated to after the disaster with her husband. She had needed to get out for the night. I tried to console her with the expedition the next evening with Roy and Lucy. Yet when I hung up I realized my own disappointment at not seeing her was tempered with relief. I didn’t feel as if I’d been unfaithful to her by seeking out Suzanne. Not much, anyway. But at the same time, it would be a hard one to explain.
I returned to the fire. I found a few more names. Chelsea. Eric. Bill. Genna. Emma. The names blurred. Grieving friends, lucky residents who’d been elsewhere, shocked classmates. The more I read, the more unsettled I became. Watching Suzanne’s interviews and going over her stories left me feeling as if the case was more open-and-shut than ever. An emotionally scarred fuckup and convicted arsonist shows up dead drunk at a party where he’s not welcome, argues with a girl in front of several witnesses, gets thrown out, and then screams his intention to kill everyone. A couple of hours later he’s caught on convenience store security video filling a milk jug with gasoline, and that jug and a lighter with his print on it are found at the scene. The beating afterward strange, but not an indicator of innocence. I thought about Suzanne’s accusation at the bar, that I believed Dorothy just enough to take her money.
Before bed I returned to the couch, picked up Frank Custer’s book again, intending to reread another chapter or two. Welcome break from zombies. And that’s when I noticed the dedication.
For Aaron.
7
At 9:30 the next morning I was driving up High Street through the heart of the campus district. Years earlier, the bar scene on these blocks had been so boisterous that ropes were stretched along the sidewalk to keep drunken students from falling into the road. A redevelopment project a few years back bulldozed the dives into oblivion, and the same stretch was now lined with chain restaurants and retail stores and office space. It was safe and bright and shiny. It also bore about as much resemblance to an authentic collegiate main drag as a new Applebee’s to a greasy spoon.
Slow Burn Page 3