Dead Money rrm-1

by Grant Mccrea

  And a cuckold, I remembered with a spleenish pain. Probably.

  It could have been Jerry. Or Ron. Or any other ex-drunk she’d picked up anywhere.

  I felt ill.

  I put my head in the toilet.

  It didn’t hurt to be prepared.

  77.

  It was morning. The sunlight hurt my eyes. Kelly came into the kitchen.

  I felt like I had somehow missed the point of everything that had ever happened to me.

  Kelly, I said. I have to talk to you.

  I know.

  Sit down, please.

  She looked at me. She saw the dread. She sat down.

  Kelly, I said, you know I love you?

  She rolled her eyes.

  Yes.

  That I’ll always love you, no matter what?

  Yes. And me too.

  She said it wearily. But she meant it, I knew.

  I need to know something, I said.

  I know you do.

  Those people.

  Mommy’s AA friends?

  Yes, them.

  Yes, Daddy? she said with an accusing look.

  Did you know about them?

  Of course I did.

  Why didn’t you tell me about them?

  Tell you about them? Did you ever ask?

  I thought about that. No, I hadn’t. But should I have?

  She stared at me. I was the butterfly impaled upon a pin.

  I was the victim.

  I was the perpetrator.

  Did I have to ask? I said lamely.

  I knew the answer.

  I tried to tell you, she said.

  You did?

  I did.

  And?

  And you weren’t interested.

  I wasn’t?

  You’d already made up your mind.

  I had?

  You’d given up.

  I had?

  You told me so.

  I did?

  You did. Not just in words. By everything you said and did. You didn’t want anything to do with it. You’d washed your hands.

  Oh Jesus. I didn’t mean for you to think that.

  I know you didn’t. But you had. You’d washed your hands of her. She knew it. I knew it.

  Oh God, I said. What have I done?

  I didn’t mean it that way, Daddy.

  I looked in Kelly’s eyes. I had to believe in them.

  A sixteen-year-old child. My conscience.

  Damn.

  I couldn’t ask her any more. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  I sat in the living-room chair. I looked at the empty couch.

  At some point, I thought, when my mind had come back into the room, we’ll have to pack up Melissa’s things. Or something. Maybe I could hire somebody to do it.

  Kelly came into the living room. She handed me a cell phone. Melissa’s.

  Please, she said. Can you do something with this?

  Her eyes were red.

  I looked at the phone. It was just a phone. I guessed I had to cancel the service. All these things. I had to make a list. I had to find someone to make a list for me. Wasn’t there some kind of organization you could hire for that stuff?

  I opened the phone. I noodled absently through the menus. Calls made. Ring tones. Little bits of Melissa.

  Calls received. A long list.

  Strange. I’d never seen Melissa use the damn thing.

  So many things I didn’t know.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know them all. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any of them.

  One number appeared over and over on the list. At least a dozen times.

  Oh Jesus.

  I didn’t want to know.

  I had to know.

  I dialed the number slowly. As it rang, I fought a powerful urge to close the phone. Throw it away.

  A male voice answered.

  It was a voice I recognized.

  I hung up fast.

  78.

  I went to my office. I ordered a tall skim latte. I distracted myself with the Times. I noticed it was Saturday. Well, crime is no respecter of the calendar. And anyway, what else did I have to do?

  I pulled out my four-by-sixes. I couldn’t spread them out without asking two nursing mothers to move to other seats. I decided against that. I just paged through the cards. Pulled out a couple of the speculative ones. FitzGibbon. Hadn’t figured him out yet. A harmless liar? Cunning manipulator? Just a nut job?

  Time to pay him another visit. Try to tease it out of him.

  Dorita came in the door with a flourish. She was wearing a bright red jacket with gaudy brass buttons.

  One thing you don’t have to worry about, I said, is attracting attention.

  You’re too kind, she said. So, what happened with Raul?

  Raul. Jesus. It seemed like a week ago I’d seen him. I had to think.

  Sorry, I said, I’m a little foggy today.

  Another night of drunken debauch at the Wolf’s Lair?

  No. Not yesterday. Yesterday was the memorial service.

  As I said it I realized with horror that I hadn’t even told her about it.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  Memorial service?

  For Melissa.

  Her eyebrows went up another notch.

  I guess I didn’t invite you.

  Yes, she said. That’s something I would be aware of.

  And I don’t know why.

  You don’t know why.

  I don’t. It wasn’t a conscious thing.

  It wasn’t.

  No. I suppose that sounds even worse.

  It does. Little old me never even occurred to you, is that it?

  Well, in a way.

  In a way.

  Okay. Yes. I didn’t think of it. I can’t explain why. God, I’m just so tired and confused all the time.

  Dorita stopped me right there.

  I wouldn’t have gone anyway, she said. Tell me about Raul.

  I told her as much as I could remember.

  She was amused by my description. The velvet curtains. The more-than-plush sofa. The maid. Her cleavage.

  That’s all? she said, when I was finished.

  That’s all, babe. So shoot me.

  My. I think I win this round.

  I’ve already paid for it, I said. Thom, another cosmo for the lady, please.

  We’re in Starbucks, Ricky.

  Oh, right.

  Nothing else, really?

  Well, the best I can say is that I’ve convinced myself that these phone calls to FitzGibbon’s office from Jules’s phone are key. Now, if we could only get someone to tell us the truth about them…

  Yes. You seem to have failed rather miserably at that.

  You are too kind, as usual.

  It’s just my nature.

  Right. So what do you have, darling? A signed confession?

  No, but a pretty good story.

  I’m all ears.

  I tracked Ramon down at a fashion show.

  These boys do get around.

  You’re telling me. Anyway, there he was, in the front row. Next to some overstuffed heiress. And FitzGibbon.

  They really are glued together at the hip, aren’t they?

  So it appears.

  So how did you get close to him?

  I had to call in a couple of favors. Get an invitation to the hospitality suite. They were pouring some decent wine. ’89 Cheval Blanc, actually.

  Very nice.

  It certainly was. It’s got a little age on it.

  Okay, all right. Hints of honey-roasted salami, nose like Jimmy Durante. I know. I’m officially jealous. Did you get anything out of him?

  I did.

  I’m waiting.

  Well. First thing is, they’re not identical.

  I figured that out already.

  Well, aren’t you a bright little boy, she said, taking an elegant sip of her herbal tea.

  I figured that out already too. Can we get to the point?


  Why do I need to tell you? You figured everything out already.

  All right. You’re smarter than me. I admit it. And a better lawyer. Can we get on with it?

  Now that you’ve finally admitted it, yes.

  And?

  Didn’t get a damn thing out of him. Except the fraternal twin thing.

  You slay me.

  Bad choice of words.

  Yes. Sorry.

  Say sorry to yourself.

  I just did. You didn’t think that apology was directed at you, did you?

  Of course not. How foolish of me.

  Well, tell me about it anyway.

  The guy never says a word.

  I’ve noticed that.

  It was very frustrating. I tried to insinuate myself. But he wasn’t having any of it.

  Used all of your charms?

  Well, not all of them. There’s a line even I won’t cross.

  That’s good information to have. And?

  Well, I finally had to just tell him who I was. Which was a little tricky. Since I’d been pretending to be someone else.

  FitzGibbon didn’t recognize you?

  Didn’t seem so. I’ve only met him a couple of times at parties. And he seemed distracted the whole time. A little out of it.

  Well, he doesn’t strike me as a fashion show kind of guy.

  Yes. It was a little weird that he was there at all.

  So, you tell Mr. IQ who you really are…

  Sort of. I said I was your assistant.

  Like I said, who you really are.

  Ramon didn’t seem too happy when he heard your name.

  Ah, my charms have been wasted on him.

  And he wouldn’t talk at all in the hospitality suite. He kept looking nervously at FitzGibbon. Like he was afraid Daddy wouldn’t approve.

  So you took him to a nice motel in the neighborhood?

  No. He took me into a private room in the back.

  Same thing.

  Not quite.

  Lap dances, at least?

  If I’d asked, I presume. Anyway, the guy’s not exactly a conversationalist. One-word answers. Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t recall.

  I don’t recall?

  Those are the words.

  Sounds like I’d prepared him for his testimony.

  Exactly. The guy was tighter than virgin pussy.

  Jesus. I hope you don’t talk that way around Warwick.

  Of course I do. He laps it up.

  Speaking of poor choice of phrase.

  I thought it was pretty good, actually.

  All right. You’re funnier than me too. So?

  Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Less than zero. I asked him about Jules. Doesn’t know anything. No hostility. Barely knows the kid. Never heard of the victim. Loves Daddy. Works hard. Security detail. That’s what he’s doing right now. Has no outside interests. Except the Club. Loves the Club. Practically lives there.

  That’s it?

  Actually, I’ve extrapolated quite a bit. He said less than that.

  Jesus. That sucks.

  It does.

  Well, I think it’s time to declare victory and go home.

  You’re such a wimp, Ricky. We need a plan.

  I thought I’d pay FitzGibbon a visit.

  And?

  That’s all.

  That’s all?

  Listen, doll, it’s all I can do to get out of bed in the morning.

  Darling, you’ve got to get organized. What’s the use of all those index cards if you don’t have a plan?

  Yes, well, I said. I was hoping you could help me with that. Can’t I have just one day off? I’m bereaved, remember?

  Right. Now I remember, she said.

  It’s okay, I said. You can be mad at me.

  No, she said, I can’t, really. Or at least I won’t.

  79.

  I dragged myself out of a dark blank sleep. I looked around the bedroom. I had no idea what time it was. Hell, I had no idea what day it was.

  I called Kelly. I asked her.

  It’s eight o’clock, Dad, she said, shaking her head. Saturday night.

  Jesus, I said. That’s really weird.

  It wouldn’t be nearly so weird if you hadn’t slept all afternoon.

  I think you may have a point there.

  Kelly was playing Scrabble with Peter. I joined them for a while. We ordered in Chinese. It was a family sort of thing.

  It felt good.

  On the other hand, I thought after losing a second game, I sure could use a Scotch.

  At the Wolf’s Lair I ran into Jake. I thought of leaving. I wasn’t in a state to deal with his mood swings.

  But I needed that drink.

  Jake was in his faraway mode. Or just plain drunk. Staring into space. Speaking in monosyllables. Mumbling about the evils of the world. I couldn’t make out half of what he said.

  I had a couple Scotches. I felt a little better. He put his arm around my shoulder. I propped him up. I was feeling charitable. He was a friend, after all. I had so few. A brother. A guy I might be able to lean on, someday. Like he was leaning on me. Sure he was a bit of a nutcase. But hell, I had to take what I could get.

  We talked poker. We had a few drinks.

  Andrea might be joining us, he said glumly.

  Excellent, I said, remembering the flirtatious looks I’d got, last time.

  It was going to be strange to see her out of context. The poker crew didn’t exist for me outside of the game.

  Strange, but not unpleasant, I mused.

  I caught myself. Jesus. Could I really be having such a thought?

  The pure man doesn’t resist temptation, I remembered from some sermon or another. He knows he’s weak: he avoids it. I should go home.

  Sure, I answered myself, but isn’t life for the living? Melissa’s gone. And she did it to herself. And me. And Kelly. And love is the best antidote. For loss. Confusion. Guilt. Longing. For anything that ails a man.

  Okay, not love.

  Maybe I could get Andrea to punish me. For my impure thoughts.

  Hold me back. Tie me up. Please. Then do it again.

  Minutes later she arrived.

  Slinky, sharp, snakelike, I saw her through the haze of drink.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Jake and I were tottering. Loud. Annoying. Oblivious. She came up smiling. She could see, and I could see that she could see, that we were out of control. She seemed to relish it.

  I was a better drunk than Jake. He was sloppy, incoherent. I was not entirely in control, but I could stand up fairly straight. Concoct a jest or two at the spectacle of Jake slipping off his bar stool to the floor. I raised a conspiratorial eyebrow at Andrea. She laughed.

  You look like somebody famous, she said to me. I just can’t put my finger on who.

  Harrison Ford?

  No. That’s not it.

  Well, I’m not famous. But the only difference between me and all those famous people is…

  Yes?

  … that you’ve never heard of me.

  She laughed again.

  We talked of this and that.

  Jake crawled to a chair. Pulled himself up. Sat down. Put his head on the table.

  Andrea put her hand on my arm.

  Her hand felt warm and strong.

  Let’s go to my place, she said.

  Okay, I said. Why not?

  Jake lifted his head. Looked straight at me. There was pain in his eyes.

  Shit. I was stealing his girl.

  She pulled at my arm.

  He put his head back down.

  Damn.

  He wouldn’t remember anything tomorrow anyway, I told myself.

  We went to her place.

  As we walked, she put her arm through mine. I felt sensations that I hadn’t felt in years. With Lisa it had been a tingle, not much more. This was the real thing. I felt full. I felt like a man.

  My God, I interrupted myself. I haven’t even buried h
er yet.

  I started to deflate.

  I pushed away the thought.

  We got to Andrea’s place. Fourth floor walk-up. Two tiny rooms. Kitchen at one end, couch at the other. Books and ashtrays. Dorothy Parker. Nice. We could talk.

  But we didn’t talk. As soon as the door closed, she was on me. She put her arms around my neck. She fastened her lips to mine. Her mouth was wet, insistent. She pushed me up against the wall. She drove herself into me. I felt her body, every curve of it. I gave myself to the sensation. I almost fainted with desire.

  She dragged me to the bed. Threw me down. I tried to sit up, to bring her with me. She raised a high-heeled foot. Pushed me back down.

  All right. So that was how she wanted it.

  She fixed me with a wicked playful stare. She pulled her shirt over her head. Nothing underneath but her. Her breasts were exquisite things. Firm, high and pointed slightly up. She cupped them in her hands.

  God in heaven, I thought. I have an erection.

  She took off her jeans. She put back on her high-heeled shoes. She stood before me. Muscular. Lithe. Honey-colored. A goddess, to my hungry eyes. She turned her back. The violin.

  She told me to turn over. I did as she commanded. She grabbed my hands. Crossed them at the wrists. I felt leather. She strapped my hands together tight.

  She ran her fingernails down my neck. I shuddered. I moaned. Every cell in my body was singing.

  Turn, she ordered.

  I struggled to obey. She pushed me over. I was on my back. She opened my shirt. She ran her fingernails down my chest. I thought I would explode. She reached my pants. Undid the belt. Pulled down the zipper. Pulled them off.

  She went away. Left me like that. I sunk into the bed. I closed my eyes. My body floated. This was what I’d needed, all along. I knew. I understood.

  I heard her heels on the floor. I opened my eyes. She had her yellow travel duck.

  It comes with me everywhere, she said.

  She reached down. She put it up against the inside of my thigh.

  She turned it on. It hummed and strummed against my skin.