Dead Money rrm-1

by Grant Mccrea

You haven’t seen them?

  I got a glance at them. I didn’t get a chance to study them. A buddy of mine’s got them.

  I told him the story. Of FitzGibbon. What I’d got from Kennedy, so far.

  Wheels and wheels, he said, getting the metaphor slightly wrong.

  That’s what I’m saying, I said. There’s so much stuff here to follow up on. But your guys don’t seem to see it. They’re still treating it like a bar fight or something.

  Hey, Rick, give them some credit. They’re not trying to railroad the kid. It’s just that nothing substantive has come up that leads anywhere else.

  I can’t say I’ve got anything substantive either. But there’s a lot of trails to follow. I don’t have the resources to follow them all.

  Then stop telling me I can’t use the stuff you’re giving me.

  I can’t do that yet. Shit, I know we’re in a tough situation here. Your interests aren’t necessarily mine, right? I mean, we both want to know the truth. But if the truth is what I hope it isn’t, I don’t want you to know that.

  Jesus, Rick. Can I have an hour or two to untangle that sentence?

  You know what I mean. I can’t just be letting your guys loose on stuff til I have a good sense of where it’s going. I’ve got to see that trust language, for starters.

  Would your buddy let you have a peek?

  I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to put him in that position.

  You’re a man of honor. But we knew that. So I guess at this point, the only thing you can hope for is that it mysteriously appears on your desk?

  Right.

  I see.

  Anyway Butch, I really appreciate your talking to me. Taking a risk.

  Nah. Don’t worry about me. I’m bulletproof.

  I admired his confidence. But I wasn’t necessarily convinced. I had enough guilt already for one lifetime. If I got Butch fired, I didn’t know what I’d do.

  62.

  Judy buzzed me. Call on line two. I picked it up.

  Mr. Redman? a familiar voice asked.

  Here, I said.

  This is Russell Graham, it said.

  I felt a stab in my lower back. I knew what was coming.

  We’re going to have to bring him in, he said.

  Well, I appreciate you calling me first.

  Silence.

  I’ll get him, I said. Two hours okay?

  All right. More than that, though, and we’ll have to go pick him up.

  I understand, I said. I’ll arrange it.

  Damn. They’d pulled the trigger. I’d been hoping for a little more time. Time to figure something out.

  Shit. Maybe there was nothing to figure out.

  I called FitzGibbon’s office. To tell him he was going to have to put up some bail money. I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to argue with him about it.

  A voice answered the phone. Not FitzGibbon. Way too refined.

  May I speak to Mr. FitzGibbon, please? I asked.

  I’m afraid he’s indisposed, the voice said.

  Ah, I said. Well. This is extremely urgent. I’m sure he’ll want to know about it immediately.

  Perhaps I can convey a message, the voice said.

  May I ask who I’m speaking to?

  Raul FitzGibbon.

  My, my. The mysterious Raul. Well, he had a good telephone manner.

  All right, I said.

  I explained the deal.

  It will be taken care of, he said, with a smoothly confident air.

  63.

  The arraignment went cleanly. We were in and out of there in two hours. Probably a record. Raul had been right. Daddy had smoothed the way. The bail was already taken care of.

  I walked outside with Jules.

  Don’t worry about it, I said. We’re going to take care of this.

  I’m not worried, lawyer guy, he said.

  Sure, I said to myself. Little tough guy. Well, he might be in for a lesson or two, before this was over.

  The preliminary hearing was two weeks Wednesday. Sixteen days. I couldn’t guarantee he’d still be out on bail after that.

  Damn. Two weeks and two days. I had a lot of work to do. What had I done so far?

  Precious little.

  Jesus.

  The kid’s life was at stake.

  I had to get my act together.

  I didn’t share that thought with my client.

  Wouldn’t be prudent.

  64.

  I went home early, to spend some time with Kelly.

  Jules wasn’t the only kid who needed me.

  Peter was there. His T-shirt said: ‘I may look funny, but I’d kick your ass at Jeopardy.’

  Hey Dad, he said.

  Peter liked to call me Dad. He thought it was funny. It probably wasn’t, really. It was all in the way he said it. Like an eager toddler when Daddy comes home from work. So I laughed. Like I always did.

  Dad, he said loudly, and took me by the elbow. I’ve got something to show you.

  He winked at Kelly as he steered me to the kitchen. She smiled.

  It was nice to see she could.

  I’m staying here, Peter said once we were out of earshot.

  It wasn’t a request. It was a statement.

  Okay, I said.

  She needs distraction, he said. Entertainment. It goes against my nature, but I’ll do my best.

  Sure, I said, missing the joke.

  Til she gets over the worst of it, anyway, he said with a suddenly serious air.

  Back in the living room, Peter asked Kelly for a pair of scissors.

  Why? she asked.

  My shoelaces are uneven, he said, pointing at his feet. They must be punished.

  Kelly brought the scissors. She hadn’t laughed yet, but the smile was back.

  Peter sat on the floor, fumbled about with his shoes for a moment.

  Phew, he said. That’s better. Kelly, come tie my shoes.

  What? said Kelly. Why should I?

  You untied them.

  I did not.

  Okay, I lied. But haven’t I told you my theory about shoe-tying?

  No.

  It’s the most intimate thing a man and woman can do together.

  Kelly laughed.

  There was a poker game that night. I didn’t want to go. Peter talked me into it. We should try to be as normal as possible, he said. I couldn’t argue with that. And, I suspected, he was probably thinking that it would be better for Kelly if my gloomy face was out of the house for a while.

  And he was probably right.

  65.

  The game was in a warehouse by the water. They never played the same place twice. It was a rule.

  The space was huge, black, smelled of oil and axle grease. Someone had rigged three spotlights in the rafters far above, aimed them at the very center of the vast expanse, illuminating in three intersecting circles the green felt poker table, seven high-backed chairs and a rococo sideboard packed with bottles of tequila, rum and wine. An oasis of light that made the surrounding darkness palpable. Like a massive black beast crouched around the tableau. Ready to swallow the unwary.

  Jesus, I said, who’s your set designer?

  Friend of Jonesie’s, said Andrea. You like?

  It’s a goddamn work of art.

  The guy’s a genius, said Jonesie.

  You won’t get an argument from me, I said.

  As I took my seat I gazed around at the surrounding blackness. It was like we were sitting on a comet deep in space.

  Drunk Jake wasn’t there. Straight Jake was there. Wearing a fedora and suspenders.

  Dressed for success, I said.

  He smiled.

  Andrea had on a slinky flapper dress.

  I wish you’d told me it was a costume party, I said, to nobody in particular.

  It isn’t, said Andrea, without elaborating.

  Where’s Drunk Jake? I asked. Coming later?

  He called in sick, said Mike.

  Drunk Jake’s absence
seemed strange. I’d come to think of it as his game. But it wasn’t his game. It was Mike’s game. And Mike was there, in the dealer’s chair. Wearing a green eyeshade.

  The first hand was dealt. Seven Two off-suit. The worst possible hand. You couldn’t even get lucky and make a straight with those two cards. I mucked them.

  It was a harbinger. I kept getting rags. The cards were cold as the grave. Not a welcome image. But there it was.

  I played with no enthusiasm. I had no focus. I didn’t really care. I’d just donate my cash to these nice folks.

  I tried to keep my side of the banter up. I feared the uninvited question, should my bereavement show. I didn’t want to be the damper on the flame.

  Andrea had a little yellow plastic duck.

  Planning on taking a bath? I asked.

  It’s my travel duck, she said, smiling.

  Your travel duck?

  Yup. It comes with me everywhere.

  I’m going to have to get me one of those.

  Everyone laughed. It hadn’t seemed that funny. Maybe they’d found out about Melissa, somehow. Were trying to humor me.

  I tried to play a bit. With the cards coming cold, the only way to win was to get aggressive. Bluff a bit. Stay ultra-sharp and look for weakness, tells, indecision. But I didn’t have the energy.

  I went back to donating my money.

  I left early. I didn’t stay to try my luck with the penalty jar. Winning it would only have made me feel guilty.

  As I left, I looked up into the endless blackness above.

  I am but a worm, I thought.

  A plaything for the Gods.

  66.

  When I got home Kelly was still up. Peter was asleep in the basement, she said. They’d played chess for hours. She’d won all the games. He was sleeping off the emasculation.

  In my day, I laughed, sixteen-year-old girls were not supposed to know the word ‘emasculation.’ Still less use it in a sentence.

  Bad luck for them, she said.

  Kelly was the ideal mix of sweet and sour. I thought of her trip the year before. She’d gone to Thailand with a group from school. To minister to AIDS orphans in the countryside. I’d saved all her e-mails. Printed them out. Tacked them to the wall. The orphans are soooooooooo cute. I want to take all of them home. But I’ll settle for my six favorites.

  But now the sweetness was suffused with sorrow. I could see it. How hard she had to struggle to maintain her sense of self. To not succumb to unadulterated grief. She didn’t want to do that. At least in front of me. She was too proud to lose control.

  I hoped she had the sense to cry her heart out when I wasn’t there.

  Daddy, she said gravely once I’d sat down. We have to have a funeral.

  Oh dear, I said. Do we have to talk about this now?

  By which you mean ‘at all.’

  She was right.

  Okay, I said. Why?

  Funerals are for the living, she said.

  I’m not sure I agree entirely. But let’s say I do. I’m living. I don’t want one.

  But you don’t count. You’re a curmudgeon.

  It was hard to argue with her logic.

  Who does? I asked. She alienated everyone she knew. Who’s going to show up?

  I regretted saying it before it got out of my mouth. Tears appeared in Kelly’s eyes. She glared at me.

  Mommy had a lot of friends, she said. They’ll be there. You keep avoiding the house. You don’t take the phone calls. You don’t know.

  Damn it. This was unfair. She had encouraged me to go to the poker game.

  Who are all these people who’ve called? I asked.

  Everybody, she said.

  She recited a list of names. Most I’d never heard before.

  Amazing. That so many old friends long cast aside in favor of the Monster would care, would call. Commiserate. Show up.

  I was helpless in the face of Kelly’s onslaught.

  All right, I said. We’ll have a memorial service, okay? I still think she’d have wanted cremation.

  The tears came back.

  The word. Cremation. The reality of it. The finality.

  I went to Kelly. I put my arms around her. We hugged. She cried.

  I must confess I cried a bit myself.

  It was good to have company.

  67.

  Laura called me Tuesday morning. Woke me up.

  Hi, Rick. How are you holding up?

  Not great.

  I’m sorry, Rick. Stupid question.

  I didn’t reply.

  I felt that I was being mean. But I didn’t have the energy to be polite.

  Listen, she said, there are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about.

  I’m all yours. Ears. I’m all yours and ears.

  I think it would be better to talk in person.

  Her voice was soothing.

  Okay, I said. Whatever. How about lunch?

  I’m not sure I have time for lunch. Can you come by the morgue?

  Hard to pass up that invitation.

  I’m sorry. It’s just the office to me. Sometimes I forget.

  No, no. Just joking. Sometimes I think of my office as a morgue too. Come to think of it, most days.

  She didn’t laugh. She had a sweet soft way with a laugh, and I wanted to hear it.

  But I thought I heard her smile.

  I promised to show up.

  It took a few minutes of concentration to remember. What the last few days had brought. What the day would bring.

  I shook my head. It hurt. I contemplated turning over. Putting the pillow over my head. Going back to the soft and unpredictable world of dreams. Who knew what wonders might await me there? But. I had an appointment. At the morgue. Jesus.

  I hauled myself out of bed. I dragged myself into some barely presentable clothes. I opened the pill drawer. At least I didn’t have to lock them up anymore. Life was handing me small consolations.

  I took twice my normal doses. I didn’t bother calling Sheila to ask. A little self-medication. Nothing wrong with that. I’d only get her endless voice mail message anyway. And I had to do something, to get me through this glorious day.

  I left the house.

  When I got to Laura’s office, she was not alone.

  Rick, she said, nodding to a rumpled gray thing on the couch, you know Detective Harwood?

  Yes, I said, we’ve met.

  He nodded. I nodded. He didn’t extend a hand.

  There’d been a change since he’d been at my house. His hostility had grown. Thrived. I saw contempt. Something had tipped him over.

  The fluorescent light didn’t flatter him. He had the pasty skin, the bored demeanor of the lifelong cop.

  The couch had seen better days too.

  You didn’t tell me we’d have company, I said to Laura.

  An effort to lighten the suddenly somber mood.

  Laura smiled uncomfortably, shuffled some papers on her desk. I tried to see what they were, but the angle wasn’t good.

  The metal desk was gray. Like the metal chair in which I sat. Like the feeling in the room.

  We have some results we’d like to share with you, Rick. From the autopsy.

  I didn’t want to hear. Whatever it was that had killed Melissa made no difference to me. Overdose, heart attack, ennui. She was gone. She’d never really had a chance. Whatever those demons were that she’d so skillfully concealed from me had gotten her in the end.

  Fire away, I said.

  Well, the first part is what we thought, Rick. What you thought.

  Yes?

  Alcohol, 0.4. Off the charts, for you and me.

  Speak for yourself, I said, half-heartedly attempting another joke.

  She didn’t smile.

  Not unusual in a long-term alcoholic, she said. But there was lots of other stuff.

  She began to read from the report. They’d put together the blood results with the pharmacological detritus. Pill containers. When she’d got the
m. What was left in them. They figured she’d ingested, at a minimum, 50 milligrams of Xanax; 800 mg Effexor; 100 mg Ambien; Adderall 225 mg.

  A listener less inured to the ways of the chronically addicted might have marveled at the quantities. Wondered how she could have stayed alive long enough to take it all.

  But I knew better.

  That doesn’t sound like all that much, for her, I said. Laura looked at me sadly.

  Well, we don’t know that, Rick. And even if it were, it’s rolling dice. Every day your body survives that kind of abuse is a minor miracle. One day it can catch up with you. It will catch up with you.

  It would have been depressing, if I wasn’t already as down as a man can be.

  My extra doses weren’t doing a thing for me.

  But, Laura continued.

  But?

  There was something else. That wasn’t enough?

  There’s no easy way to put this, Rick, so I’ll just say it. Please do.

  There was semen, Rick. Semen?

  This was not a word I had expected to hear.

  What? Semen? Where?

  Where you’d expect it to be, Rick.

  Her incessant repetition of my name was beginning to get on my nerves. I knew it was meant to soothe. To placate. Establish rapport, empathy. But it was pissing me off.

  That’s impossible, Laura, I said sharply. Come on. Lab contamination or something. We haven’t. We hadn’t. In years. Jesus. Two or three at least.

  Yes, she said. I understand that you had said that. Actually, that’s why it seems to be an issue.

  I didn’t remember telling anyone that. But then, I didn’t remember much about that day. Nor, I suddenly remembered, about the night before that day.

  Something vague and ugly came back to me. But no. No way. That had been a dream. A drunken hallucination.

  Not one that I was about to share, with my good friend Harwood in the room.

  So what the hell is this? I said. How is this possible?

  That’s something we might have to look into, Rick.

  Jesus, I said. Jesus H. Christ. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She didn’t have the energy to have a boyfriend. She could barely get off that goddamn couch. For Christ’s sake, she never even left the house.