Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  Ted Raines looked at me, hopeful.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  He looked up at Muna and smiled. “I guess nothing for me, either.”

  Muna stood there for a time watching the both of us. “Everything okay over here?”

  I didn’t answer, neither did he; she placed a hand on her hip. “Well, somebody better say something, or I’m going for the bat behind my counter.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  She fixed my father with a withering stare. “Better be.”

  When she charged off, he stared after her, his mouth slightly open. “What just happened? Does she really have a bat?”

  “At least one,” I said.

  “Your water’s getting cold.”

  I hadn’t touched the pot or the cup. I didn’t touch them now. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I should just start, right?” He glanced over at Muna and found her staring at him. “Is she going to do that the whole time?”

  “She is,” I said.

  He took a sip of cold coffee, grimaced, then braced himself, the silence between us threatening to go on indefinitely. I didn’t have time for it. I had leads to uncover, leads to follow up on.

  “So?” I asked, hoping to get things moving. “You wanted to explain yourself.”

  He nodded. “I did. I do.” He toyed with his cup. “I ran. That’s the long and short of it. Your mother, her illness, it was all so horrible. I loved her so much. I love you, too, though up till now I’ve had a terrible way of showing it. After she was gone, I knew I was over my head. I had no idea what to do next, so I ran.”

  “And you weren’t coming back,” I said.

  “I told myself I was coming back, but you’re right, I managed to convince myself that you needed more than me, that you’d have more of a chance in a loving home with your grandparents.” He took another sip from his cup. “Grace and Frank, apparently, felt the same. They lost your mother, but they made it perfectly clear to me that they weren’t about to lose you, too. We never really hit it off. I was never good enough, and they let me know it. I provided, sure, I loved your mother and you, but I was never quite good enough.” He offered a half smile. “It’s good to see you again, to see that you’re well.”

  “I am well.”

  He nodded, watching me, looking a little shaky and tense. This wasn’t easy for him. I could see it. It shouldn’t be. “I got married again, twice, but I told you that already. I had to learn to be a good father. It’s important to me that you know that. I’m even a little bit overprotective, like I should have been with you. . . . Your brother’s name is Whitford, we call him Whit. I mean, his mother and I do. She’s Sela, my second wife. He’s going on seventeen.... Maybe you two can meet soon? . . . I’m rambling.” He drew in a long breath, blew it out, settled. “The longer I stayed away, the easier it got.” He picked up his cup again, but put it down without drinking. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “I promised I’d listen.”

  He exhaled noisily, disappointed. “You did, yes.”

  “Well, after so many years, it was the guilt and shame that kept me away. I moved in and out of a lot of cities, had a lot of different jobs. I was drinking, though I eventually got a handle on that. Seventeen years clean, come August. I stopped right before Whit was born. I didn’t want to fail another kid.” He wiped his forehead with a napkin he’d twisted to near shreds. “Do you remember that I drank?”

  “We weren’t that close, were we? You worked, you came home, I was in my room.”

  “I regret that now. Well, I did drink, and I lost control over it when your mother got sick. When we found out she wouldn’t get better, it got bad, then worse.”

  Muna returned to top off his cup. She eyed my untouched teapot and mug, scowled at Ted, then left again without attending to either. Just checking in. In addition to the bat behind the counter, I knew she kept a switchblade tucked in her waistband. Deek’s wasn’t a rowdy place, but Muna had worked a lot of dodgier places before here, and old habits die hard.

  “I’m not the same man today. You have every right to push me away. I’m just hoping you won’t. Haven’t you ever done anything you wished you hadn’t? Something you’d sell your soul to take back, if you could?”

  I thought of Jimmy Pick, then quickly pushed the thought away. “I’m not exactly sure what it is you want from me. I’m not a child anymore. I grew up. I’m too old for the circus. I scrape a knee, I bandage it myself. I vote and drive, pay my own bills, kill my own spiders. I can run perfectly well with scissors. Besides, why now? Why not ten years ago? Five?” He didn’t answer. I watched as his face clouded over with shame. “Guilt? Is that what’s eating you?”

  “Partly,” he said.

  “And the other part?”

  “I read about what happened to Father Heaton. I still get the hometown papers where I live.”

  At the mention of Pop’s name, I folded in on myself, immediately guarding whatever door he’d managed to ease open. I didn’t want him talking about Pop. Pop was mine. Pop stuck, as fathers are supposed to. He didn’t run off when I needed him. I shot my father a look of warning.

  “What’s he got to do with you?” I asked.

  “I know how important he was to you.” His eyes searched mine. “I thought that you might need someone.”

  “By someone, you mean you?”

  “He and I weren’t exactly friends, but I saw how you took to him, how easy it was for him to get through to you when I couldn’t. You bonded with him like you never did with me. I held a lot of resentment toward him, I guess. The drinking didn’t help any.”

  I watched as his hands balled into fists on top of the table. Obviously, the feelings weren’t all behind him. “So when I read about what happened, I knew you’d be grieving. I thought maybe you’d be open to talking. That maybe there was room for me now.”

  I sat stunned, staring at his hands, listening to the undertones of anger in his voice. “You hated him.”

  He shook his head. “I envied him because he had you, but I was blaming him for my own failings. Sobriety gives you a truer perspective on things.”

  “So you came back because his spot was suddenly vacant? You came back to make sure Pop was dead?” My voice rose.

  He leaned back, as though I’d slapped him. “Of course not. I gave you my reasons for coming.”

  I shook my head, anger rising. “I don’t believe you. He took your spot, and you’ve hated him this whole time for it.”

  He jutted his chin out, his expression resolute. “You’re wrong. If anything, it’s the opposite. I realized that instead of resenting him, I owed him for what he did for you. I’m just sorry I got here too late to tell him to his face.”

  I searched his eyes, looking for truth, not certain if I was seeing it or something else. I didn’t know the man well enough to tell. But I was getting a sinking feeling, one I didn’t like, one that threatened to blow the top off of the conciliatory calm I’d managed to keep on top of ever since the man wandered into my front yard.

  “You called him Pop? I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  My eyes narrowed, my defenses, now miles thick, were firmly in place. “Were you too late?”

  He looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “You said you were too late to tell him you owed him a debt. Were you too late? You’ve really not seen him in over twenty years?”

  He stared at me, still not getting what I was asking. Then he got it. His eyes widened. “Wait a minute. Are you asking me if I had something to do with how he died?”

  “Did you?”

  “How could you think such a thing?”

  I had to know. “When did you get here? In town.”

  “Cass, look. You’ve got this whole thing twisted.”

  “You wanted to talk, we’re talking. Answer the question. When did you get here?”

  “He was already dead when I got here. I told you I read about it in the p
aper.”

  “How long?” My voice rose higher, quivered. “How many days exactly?” Could he have killed Pop? How much did he resent him? How deep did it go? What would I do if he was the killer I was looking for? What would I do?

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t do anything, just sat there stunned, wounded.

  “I’m your father,” he said. “I may not have a right to the title, but I am your father.”

  “So you’re refusing to answer?” I stood, fumbled with my jacket. “Fine. Then I’ll find out on my own.” I punched my arms into my jacket sleeves. “And I will find out. Oh, and for the record, he was my father, not you. Pop did more for me than you ever did. He cleaned up the mess you left behind. If I find out you had anything to do with . . .” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. I needed to get out and away. “Go back to your family. Go protect the hell out of them. We’re done.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait. Please,” he said. “If this is all I get, then I may as well get through it all.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his billfold, and set it on the table. I watched, wondering if he intended to pay me for my time. God help him, if he did. He opened the billfold and pulled out what looked like an old photo folded in quarters, which he unfolded and laid beside the wallet. “This is you accepting your high school diploma. I left before you or your grandparents saw me.” He reached back in and pulled out a second photo and laid it next to the first. “College graduation. I sat in the back row, nearest the door.” He reached into the wallet for a third time. “The police academy.” He smiled. “You looked so determined.” He looked up at me. “I didn’t let go.”

  The photos unnerved me. I didn’t know what to feel about them, about him. What right did he have to monitor me, but not parent me? “You were a ghost hiding in shadows. No good to me then, no good to me now. I’d say I’ll see you around, but I doubt I’ll lay eyes on you again.” I turned again to leave. “Thanks for the tea.”

  “I was here,” he said calmly. “Two years ago.”

  I turned back. “You’re free to come and go as you please, obviously.”

  He pulled a small folded square of blue paper from his wallet. Not a photograph this time. He slid the paper toward the center of the table. It was a hospital visitor’s pass. There on the face of it was the name of the hospital I’d been in, the letters ICU, and the date—two days after the rooftop shooting. “I prayed every day, harder than I ever have before, or since.”

  I felt a flutter in my throat. I wanted to stop him from talking, to turn tail and run, like he had done all those years ago, but I held the spot. I’d learned from Pop and from my grandparents that you held up your end no matter what, you didn’t run, you didn’t back down, no matter how painful it was, no matter how difficult.

  “I had nothing to do with your Pop’s death. I wouldn’t do that to you. And I’m not giving up this time. That’s a promise I intend to keep.”

  I sneered, seething. “Still don’t believe you.”

  I reached into my pocket, placed a five-dollar bill on the table next to the contents of his wallet. “And just so we end this clean, that’s for the tea.” Halfway to the door I stopped, turned, and went back.

  I could feel the other diners watching me. I was making a scene and didn’t care. I wanted to look into my father’s face one more time to see if I was looking into the face of Pop’s killer. He stood up to face me.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time. How long?”

  He tossed his napkin down on the table, a dejected look on his face. “Four days.” He kept his voice low, but it was too late for that. The entire diner was already engaged in our drama. “I came by train. The ticket’s back in my hotel room, if you need to see it.”

  “Yeah, I need to see it.”

  “My word’s not good enough?”

  I laughed in his face. “Are you serious?”

  I could feel Muna beside me now. She had my back. Why couldn’t he have killed Pop? Killers didn’t always look like deranged lunatics. Some of them showed up on your lawn with bright smiles, dressed in good suits. Cesar Luna could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe seeking Pop’s counsel when Ted Raines showed up.

  I took out my cellphone and snapped his picture. I’d need it to show around the church. I’d find out where he’d been if it took everything I had. If he killed Pop, he’d pay, and the fact that we shared blood wouldn’t factor in.

  His eyebrows knit together. “What’s that for?”

  I shook the phone in his face. “If anyone around that church recognizes you, I’ll be back, and God help you then.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I heard him say as I turned and headed for the door. I didn’t believe that either.

  Chapter 22

  I paced the sidewalk outside of Deek’s to try and steady myself, thinking of my father, the ghost, wafting in and out of my life like a restless haint, resenting Pop, envying him. When I’d had enough and could think straight again, I walked to my car and slid my key in the driver’s door. My mind was not on the street.

  The four-door, rimmed-up, drive-by special with tinted windows rolled to a slow, menacing stop at my front bumper, boxing me in at the curb. The front passenger door flew open, and a sumo-sized Hispanic man lurched out of the front seat, his dark, flat eyes trained on me, his black jeans sagging, the short-sleeves of his white T-shirt rolled up over heavily tatted biceps. The gaudy gold chains around his thick neck jingled like dog chains when he moved. The look on his face seemed to issue a challenge. Go ahead. Try to get past me. No gun that I could see, though I was sure he had one tucked somewhere. Mine would have come in handy, but I’d left it at home in the lockbox. I didn’t think I’d need it for coffee with my father.

  The big guy cocked his fat head toward the back seat. “Get in.”

  I checked the street, though now it was a little late for that. There was no one walking or driving along. Figured. It was just me, the car, and the gruff offer of a dicey ride I had no intention of taking. I slid a glance toward the diner. No help there. No one was looking. I thought of Muna’s bat tucked soundly under the counter. My father was probably still in the booth ordering breakfast.

  I turned back to Big Guy and we stared at each other until finally the back window rolled down to reveal Hector Perez sitting in the back seat. “We don’t got time for no pissing match here, Ignacio,” he said. The sight of Hector Perez sitting in the back of a banger car hemming me in at the curb was not reassuring, considering he was a known thug, and we hadn’t exactly parted the best of amigos. Still, my shoulders relaxed some. Better the banger you know than the banger you don’t. He said, “We been sitting out in front of your office down there for a long time, Five-0. We got to talk, but not in the open like squatting ducks.”

  “What do you want?” I asked, eyeing the giant, paying close attention.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” Hector said.

  I shook my head. “Not a chance.”

  He smirked. “You don’t trust me?”

  “No,” I said. “Move your car.”

  He shot me a greasy smile. “Or what?”

  It was a good question. There wasn’t much I could really do. Ignacio advanced a couple steps. “He gets any closer and we’re going to have a problem,” I said.

  Hector chuckled. “He won’t, but maybe you will.” His eyes traveled over me, as though he were a hungry man eyeing a pork chop. “You’re not carrying.” He shrugged. “No gun. No nothin’. That’s stupid.”

  He was right. It was stupid. Ignacio laughed, then took another step forward. “Kneecaps. Groin. Eyes. Ribs. Throat. Groin first,” I said.

  Ignacio blanched and stepped back, his beefy hands cupping his privates.

  Hector laughed. “Smart move, Iggs. Look Five-O, I maybe got some information you want. But I’m not hanging around out here like this to give it to you. Things could get, how you say, messy.” His smile disappeared. “I figure I owe Cesar.”

  “Why now
?”

  “Call it change of heart, eh?” He eased the back door open.

  “Still not getting in,” I said. “I don’t trust you, but I do trust Mrs. Luna. You want to talk? Let her set the date and time, and the three of us will discuss that information you have. She has my number. Now move.”

  Hector’s eyes went cold, black. “I don’t like your attitude.”

  “Tough nuts,” I said.

  For a moment there was only silence, then Hector nodded, and his smile slowly returned. “Wait for that call.”

  His door slammed shut; the back window rolled up. Ignacio slid back into the car, and then the car sped off. I was still on my feet, but the blood had well and fully drained from my extremities.

  My father burst through the diner door. “Who was that? Are you okay?”

  Muna rushed out right behind him, bat in hand. “Where’d they go?”

  I opened my car door. “Everything’s fine. It was nothing.”

  Neither looked convinced, but I climbed into my car and drove away, leaving them on the sidewalk watching me go.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Raines? Bear. Did I wake you?”

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  “Why the hell not? It’s four-thirty in the morning.”

  I ran the damp rag along my kitchen counter. After a day of coming up empty on the black girl and Pop’s datebook, I’d spent the night sanitizing my kitchen instead of sleeping like a normal person. “Sounds like you were trying to wake me.”

  “Nah, I’m up to my buttercups in biscuits,” she said. “Didn’t realize till you picked up how early it was. Bad form. My oops. Anyway. We found your guy.”

  I stopped wiping. “How? When?”

  “Nah, nah, nah, nah. Doesn’t matter,” she said, as if skipping over details so inconsequential they hardly seemed worthy of a mention. “He also goes by the name GI and hangs out around the Angel Arms Shelter on East Sixty-Third. Ask for Rashid. This GI’s not an every dayer, but he stops in there enough for it to be kind of a thing. Hot meal, hot shower, a warm cot; he’s never there earlier than ten, never after dark. After sundown, he bedrolls it in the park beside the beach house, but only when the weather’s good. Nobody seems to know where he goes otherwise. Can’t miss him. Stop by here before you head over to the Arms; I’ll wrap up some biscuits for you.”