I watched George after he helped Isabel unwrap my gift—Meatball—and then he put her down to play with the bear while he shook hands with an old friend. She didn’t know what to do with the bear. She didn’t yet know to squeeze its paws or give it a hug so that it would talk to her. She wanted her daddy. So she put Meatball aside and pulled herself up to standing using a folding chair next to her dad. At the very same time, that old friend rested his drink on the seat. George didn’t notice. He didn’t see Isabel.
At that moment, I knew. Nobody saw her.
I took the drink before Isabel got to it. I drank it.
And then I took Isabel. I put my arms around her and she kicked me in the legs and cried but nobody stopped me, because nobody could say she hadn’t had any of Soleil’s apple juice. She kicked her little legs, fighting the whole way.
Now, here in the middle of the Jewel, I put my arms around Isabel as she fights me and everything that came before me. She kicks me and I close my eyes and I could cry, too, for her. Because I’m all she’s got, and I don’t know what the fuck else to do.
When she starts to wear down, I stay with her. I hold her and I tell her, “I’m with you.” I tell her over and over. I stay close. My face is wet with her tears. And then, finally, I feel her give in. I feel her little fingers clutch my shirt. She stops kicking. Her cries soften to tears. And eventually, her tears dry.
She’s asleep by the time I get her to the car. I load the groceries and on the way home, I peek at her quiet face during every red light. I feel bad—I say I’m the only one responsible enough to take care of her and yet somehow I manage to set her up for breakdowns.
When I pull up in front of the house, there’s an unmarked waiting outside. Before I park, I get a bead on the old cop in the driver’s seat. He’s working a crossword. I won’t pretend he isn’t there, but I’m not going to go over and introduce myself. He’s the one getting paid to be curious. I’m the one with melting Popsicles.
I wake Isabel and she sits on the front steps and tries to peel an orange while I move the groceries in stages—from the trunk to the bottom step. Bottom step to the top step. From the top step inside; inside to the kitchen.
When I get Isabel inside, too, I change her pants and peel her orange.
I’ve got noodles cooking and nearly all the groceries put away when the dick finally knocks.
I take Isabel with me, a buffer, to greet him at the door.
“Simonetti?” he asks.
He’s not an old-timer but he’s old enough to have worn his mustache in and out of style. He doesn’t look at Isabel. Usually it’s the rookies who ignore kids, either because they’re too on point or because they’re too young to have kids.
“I’m Pohlman,” he says. “Stan Pohlman.”
As a rule I hate calling cops by their first names and I don’t want him to call me by mine so I say, “This is Isabel,” who is transfixed, because at her age, any guy with a white mustache is a guy worth knowing.
Pohlman ignores her. Not even a glance. Says, “I’m here about Johnny Marble.”
“Come in.”
I get him to the kitchen table and strap Isabel into her highchair and say, “I’m making lunch. Are you a mac-and-cheese guy?”
“Coffee.”
Okay. I get it: we aren’t going to be friends. Fine with me.
I make coffee. I give Isabel a half a banana and she squishes it through her fingers while she watches Pohlman look over the papers he’s pulled from his book. The one I can see looks like a report.
I say, “I’m ready when you are.”
“Don’t you have somewhere you can put her?”
“Here’s fine.” I pour juice for Isabel. “Iverson said to expect you. She also said she’d find me a desk—”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Macaroni!” Isabel yells, the demand setting Pohlman’s teeth on edge.
“Macaroni is coming.”
“Macaroni!”
“… is coming.” I’ve developed a tolerance for incessant noise; I also know how to put a stop to it. But I’m not sure I should. Isabel might be the trick to making this little sit-down short and sweet.
Just to make sure, I untwist the spillproof cap to the juice cup before I put it on the table, just out of her reach.
When the coffee is ready, I set a mug in front of Pohlman. I say, “Let’s talk about—” and then the timer goes off.
“Macaroni!”
“Johnny Marble,” I finish. And then I go back to the sink to strain the noodles.
Pohlman closes his book. “You’re distracted.”
“Do you have kids? Because this isn’t a distraction. This is just lunch.” While I mix the noodles and cheese etcetera, I decide his non-answer means I should segue, so I say, “Truthfully, I could probably juggle knives while I tell you, verbatim, what the narrative in that report you have says about Marble and me.”
“I don’t need the story,” he says. “I just want to know one thing: how did Marble get your gun?”
“We fought,” I say. “I lost.”
“You were armed. You didn’t fire.”
“There were civilians involved.”
“You put them in danger.”
“I chased Marble. I tackled him. He was bigger than me. I couldn’t hold him.”
“Verbatim,” he says, and pushes the book away. He rubs his eyes. “Something is missing.”
“Nope. It’s all there.”
“Someone can take your gun away from you, you shouldn’t have a gun.”
I stand back; I don’t want Isabel to see how I must look when I say, “You want to tell me you never lost a fight? Try me.”
“Mama?” Isabel senses the change in my voice.
“I never lost no fight to a tomato can.” Pohlman sits back. “It’s my opinion—which the First Amendment says I’m entitled to—that you’re either stupid, or you’re lying. It’s also my opinion that either way, you lose a fight and you lose your weapon? You should admit you’re unfit to carry and do something else with your life. Save the children. How about that.”
“How about that,” I say. I’m seething.
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby. Do you want your juice?” I push the cup toward her and she predictably knocks it forward; apple juice splatters all over the table and on Pohlman’s book, which he tries to save, which causes him to spill coffee all over himself—an unintended bonus.
“Goddamn—” he stands up.
“Sorry,” I say, “I was distracted.”
“Goddamn,” Isabel says.
The look Pohlman gives me makes me think I’m lucky he doesn’t pull his service revolver and take advantage of the Second Amendment.
“The bathroom,” I say, and show him the way.
As soon as he’s in there, I get his book.
I find the report and give it a quick once-over. I find Marble’s address and copy it onto my forgotten grocery list. I turn to the next page and do a double take, because Iverson is the one who took my statement at the hospital. I don’t remember talking to her. She must know more than she let on. She must have written less.
“Mama?”
“Partner in crime,” I whisper, and kiss her face.
I close the book and get Isabel on my hip. I unspool a bunch of paper towels. I give Isabel the cardboard cylinder.
When Pohlman comes back, we’re on the floor. I’m cleaning up the mess and trying not to look guilty; Isabel is beating on the hardwood with her new cardboard toy with complete abandon.
I look up at Pohlman. “I really am sorry about this.” I offer him a paper towel.
He declines and reaches for his book; I think he means to leave.
“Stan.” I don’t think I quite make it sound like his name belongs to him. But, “Listen. I can tell you what’s missing.”
“I’m sure,” he says. Not like he cares. He folds his arms, tucks the book. He doesn’t plan on believing me.
Still
: “I believe my statement says that Marble hit my head against the landing and took my gun.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, right before something like that, when I knew Marble had me, when I knew he was too strong? I held on to him. That’s how I fought. It was all I could do. I had the gun between us, but I couldn’t get a shot off. I could only hold on. When he shook me off and stood over me, I didn’t know where my gun was. But it didn’t matter. Marble could have killed me. With his bare hands. With one hand. And he knew it; he was laughing. And I knew it, too.” I stand up. “From the moment I saw him, and from the very first step I took toward chasing him: I knew he could have killed me. I chased him anyway. That’s the part that’s missing.”
Pohlman sizes me up. I’m smaller than him. For a second I think he’s going to let up. He’s going to sympathize. But the hard lines around his eyes remain, and he says, “You are stupid.” Then he heads for the door, no goodbye.
Isabel looks up at me.
I tell her, “I’m not stupid.”
I find my phone and dial Maricarmen. Turns out I need her this afternoon.
* * *
It’ll take me a half hour to get to Marble’s. I call Andy on the way.
“Kanellis.”
“Hi.” I say it like I’m sorry.
“Feeling better?” He’s asking about my attitude.
“Yes. But you understand, don’t you? That work, for me? It’s like, well, I can’t not work. It’s an addiction—”
“Don’t say it, G.”
“I wasn’t going to. I’m just saying: you understand. I can’t quit.”
Andy has tried everything to stop smoking: patches, gum, hypnosis, electronic cigarettes. He’s at the point where he’s talked about it so much quitting is always everyone’s first question. Especially since the cancer angle got so sharp. Now, he just wants people to quit asking.
He says, “You are welcome to change the subject.”
“Well, I hear the Marble case has taken a turn.”
“Really? That subject?”
“I hear you’re the lead.”
“Yeah, and then I caught two other cases. I take back what I said about you lounging in rehab. I wish you could come share the load.”
“I will—”
“I said could. Not would. And you can’t. Anyway, I don’t know if the charges will stick. St. Claire is completely animal crackers. Her caregiver backs up her story, though. That woman is a fucking guard dog.”
“Good thing for St. Claire.”
“I don’t know about that. When I get to be that age, I’ll spend my last dollar on a bottle of goodbye before I pay some rude bitch to point me toward my own toilet.”
“Maybe St. Claire doesn’t like to be alone.”
“Who likes to be alone? There’s a reason I’m dating a twenty-four-year-old. Same reason you spend your off hours with someone who’s two.”
He’s right, of course, but I don’t know how he seems so at ease with it.
“What I’m saying is, St. Claire seems like she could afford nice. I wouldn’t list that among Robin Leone’s qualities.”
“I’m glad someone’s standing up for her.”
“I’m glad it’s not you.”
“So now what? Now that it’s you?”
“I’m going to try to get Sanchez on board. I figure if I tell her about St. Claire, she might come around.”
“I hope she does. I hope someone sane steps up.”
“I gotta go,” Andy says. “Get better.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then get finer, baby.”
We hang up.
I do feel better knowing Andy plans to talk sense to Sanchez. If she agrees to testify, the prosecution could try building a serial case, and if they want to win, they’ll steer wide around what happened between Marble and me.
Still, I’m not stupid, and I know Pohlman isn’t the only one who thinks I should turn in my star. Only way around that is to prove I’m police.
I park on Western just south of Sixty-third in Chicago Lawn. I tuck my Ruger into the tight waist of my pants. I carry four screwdrivers, my phone, and a pair of gloves in my bag, and I head for Marble’s apartment.
Weiss said it’s a game, looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found. From my days as an evidence tech, I’d say the likely way to win is to look at everything except who you’re looking for. The incidentals are what provide clues to a person’s character—who they are when they aren’t committing a crime—and those things paint a bigger picture. Those things give direction to where Marble may be now.
The apartment sits above a beauty supply shop that claims to specialize in human hair and wigs. Iron fencing protects the ground-floor windows; the glass is covered with yellowing posters of products and the slick-looking people who supposedly use them. Behind the glass, the actual products and people look nothing like the ads.
The common door has no lock. I slip on my gloves and go in. The entryway holds just enough space between doors for mailboxes; I use my Phillips slotted 3/32 to let myself into Marble’s. I tuck his mail under my arm and climb the stairs to 205. The lock takes a pick and a T8 star driver to get in.
When I open the door the smell is overwhelming. Thanks to the police who preceded me, the place is a mess, drawers opened and emptied, Marble’s life stuff turned inside out. And, there are cages all over the room—single animal crates, standing hutches, multistory wire birdcages. What I’m smelling, then, is dried-up shit.
Mental note. Character: compulsive.
I walk the single path set by police tape. The apartment is a studio, and there isn’t much room in the room. The kitchen is a fridge, a burner, a sink. The bathroom is a toilet and a mirror. Bordered by the yellow tape, the single bed is strewn with magazines; its headboard is a ledge marked by clean squares, dust left around evidence the team took.
Behind me, something moves, and I turn with my gun aimed at a cockroach skittering across the floor. Another one follows.
Mental note: negligent.
I let the bugs off the hook, tuck my gun, and pick up the mail I dropped. I get my back against the wall while I go through it. There is a circular for the local pizza place. A flyer for a cleaning service. A credit-card offer for someone named Nam Pak Cho, maybe the former occupant. And there are a couple of bills—ComEd and OK magazine—addressed to someone named Christina Hardy, maybe another former occupant. Or a current girlfriend, though there’s none of her touch here.
Then, there are three magazines: Twist, M and OK. Each cover features splash-framed teenage pop stars. Not a single one of them should interest a man old enough to be my dad.
Mental note: lewd.
When the fridge fan quits I hear a different kind of buzzing, and find flies congregating at the card table in the middle of the room. There, the police tape droops, a sign it’s been stretched. And at the table, over the single folding chair, is Marble’s purple warm-up jacket.
He’s been here.
Mental note: fucking fearless.
I move the tape. I walk around the table.
The flies are interested in the open mouth of a Dr Pepper two-liter and the rings of syrup left by an empty plastic cup. A white paper bag sits open on its side. Inside: a half-eaten sub.
I lift his coat. Smell stench. Hold my breath and check the pockets. I don’t find my .40 S&W, but I do shake out a near-empty bottle of pills—Risperdal—prescribed by a Dr. Adkins to Kay St. Claire.
I take pictures of the bottle. The jacket. The animal cages. The room.
I put everything back the way I think it was.
And then I get the fuck out of there.
* * *
I’m in a hurry to get home even though I can’t tell anybody about what I found at Marble’s. Hell, I can’t tell anybody I went there. I can only wonder where Ray Weiss is looking. I didn’t want his character to be the one in question.
It’s exactly four thirty when I pull up in front of
the house and park behind Lidia’s car. I put my Ruger in the trunk and tell myself that just like with my disease, nothing is different here except me, and no one has to know what I know. Yet.
I let myself in and the first thing I hear is Isabel’s sweet voice singing e, f, g. I want to dash in and hug her and be glad nothing has changed about her, not in the space of an afternoon, anyway. I pull off my boots.
“Who’s with Izz?” I ask as I pass through the kitchen, where Maricarmen is at the stove and Lidia is setting up her gear at the table.
Mari says, “You can’t believe it.”
I hear Isabel get mixed up after k, and it’s George who helps her through l,m,n,o,p.
“It’s the delivery man,” Mari says.
The cold panic I’ve been wading through since leaving Marble’s shifts like a current, and I know I’m about to be dragged along a familiar course, shallow and rocky.
They’re in the living room. George is sitting at Isabel’s electronic activity table pushing buttons, and Isabel is sitting next to George. She is thrilled, because he is a kid like she is.
And no matter how mad I am at him, when I see him, I’m just a little less mad.
He looks clean: his bushy hair is cut to short curls. He’s gained weight, so his old black Ramones T-shirt fits again. His tennis shoes look new.
“Daddy, get up,” Isabel says, because she wants a turn at her own toy.
What George could do is show her he’s playing the notes that make up “Three Blind Mice.” Or better, he could pull his daughter onto his lap and show her how he’s doing it.
Or, I don’t know, he could just be a grown-up and get out of the fucking way.
“Just a minute,” George says, trying to finish the verse.
He can’t remember.
Have you ever seen such a sight in your life?
“Georgie,” I say. I’m the only one besides Mom who ever called him that.
He looks up and smiles and he seems sober and I’m relieved. I say, “Give me a hug.”
“Regina.” He gets up and hugs me and I smell his sweat, boozy.
Seems sober.
I kiss his cheek. I get in his ear. I say, “Son of a bitch.”
I feel Isabel’s arms around my legs. “Mama!”
I pick her up and hug her and get in her ear, too, though I don’t say anything. I’m hiding. Not because it’s awkward for George to hear her call me mama; I shouldn’t have to justify that.
The Lies We Tell Page 9