When she disappeared for an unusually long period of time, and their glasses had gone empty, he grabbed them and decided to check on her. After looking in the kitchen, he moved over toward the side entrance to the garage. He pressed his ear to the door and could hear a low, muffled voice. Unable to make out the words, he yanked the door open.
BOBBY LOOKED OVER AT Mike. They sat close to one another, but not too close. “I wonder if I should put my hand on your knee or something,” he said. “It’s too much like I’m having my best friend over. I don’t want the purpose of this to be lost on anyone.”
“Oh Jesus,” Mike responded. “Let’s take it one step at a time. I’m good so far. They know what’s going on, and they’re just getting used to it. I don’t want to set the General off.”
“Yeah, makes sense. My Dad’s sick, I can tell, but he’s being a trooper. That’s not normal for him. He’s doing it for us. That alone means a lot to me. It means he’s okay with us, and that’s why we’re here, dealing with this awkwardness.”
“Your mom is nice, too.”
“Listen, you know she’s drunk, I know she’s drunk, my dad knows she’s drunk. She thinks that nobody knows, that’s how it works around here—it’s how we’ve always functioned. Family secrets, skeletons in the closet and all that. I’m sorry about it, but she’s really okay other than that one problem.”
“Don’t sweat it. My dad drinks too. Same thing, he thinks none of us realize how much. We hear all of the excuses; he needs to relax, rough day at work, etcetera. Some world, huh? Everyone spends their lives stressed out, self-medicating, and working their ass off, for what in the end? A lot of unrealized dreams?”
“Not for us, Mike. We’re gonna make ours real. Tonight is the first step.”
SHE STOOD WEDGED IN the far corner of the garage with her back to him, the cord from the extension phone above his workbench stretched taut. Her hand was over her mouth to quiet the conversation. She spun around and saw him, a shocked expression on her face. “Okay, Diane, I love you. Got to go, bye,” she said as she rushed to replace the phone on its cradle.
“Tommy. I came in to get more beer out of the garage fridge. I was just calling to check in on Diane.”
He tried to suppress his anger, not wanting its physical or emotional effects to ruin the dinner for his son. “You were, huh? Since when do you need to hide in the garage to call your sister? And I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say you love her.”
“No, it was her, check the phone logs,” she said, grabbing several perspiring beer bottles from the workbench. “The boys need a refill, and I have to check on the food...” she said as she rushed by him.
He followed her out of the kitchen, and they took their places around the dining-room table. He kept an eye on her as she bustled about, clearly rattled from their altercation. She set a large casserole dish filled with lasagna on a hot pad in the center of the table. “Dig in everyone, family-style,” she announced.
Tommy tried to dismiss what had happened and keep the mood upbeat. He contributed to their light conversation but became annoyed as Margie repeated herself often and began to slur more heavily. When she looked at him, he glanced toward her large glass of red wine meaningfully, hoping she would switch to something else, at least for the sake of their son.
He could sense that Bobby and his guest were uncomfortable, and caught them occasionally eyeing each other sideways. He picked at his food cautiously and soon noticed that everyone was done except for him. He’d only had the courage to sample a bit of bread and butter, and salad with mild dressing. He decided to try a bite of the lasagna.
As he chewed his first bite, he understood their discomfort. He resisted the urge to spit the food back onto his plate. Lifting the slice, he saw that the bottom was completely blackened, and the flavor of garlic was overpowering.
She saw him examining his food. “Bobby likes it crispy,” she said.
“And with lots of garlic, too,” Tommy replied, with a wink at his son and Mike. They laughed, and Margie got upset.
“You cook next time then, damn it!” she shouted to him. The tension in the room grew palpably as she got up and began clearing their places. As she took Mike’s plate, she toppled his beer glass, spilling a river of foaming beer across the table and onto him. He jumped up, and Bobby rushed to clean it from his crotch with a napkin.
Margie watched her son’s actions, looking appalled. “Fuck you, Tommy!” she said, grabbing her coat and car keys and heading out the door.
The revolt in Tommy’s digestive system since swallowing the mouthful of lasagna was growing. He knew he had little time left to get to the bathroom and wanted to clean the situation up as best he could. “Well, that went pretty well, didn’t it?” he asked Mike and Bobby sarcastically.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Borata,” Mike answered. “My family’s even worse. These things have a way of going wrong, the first time anyway until everyone gets to know each other enough to relax. I’m worried about her driving; should we go after her?” he asked.
“No,” Bobby answered. “She’s not going far, and she doesn’t want us following her. This is status quo. Welcome to the Boratas’.”
They began to clean up, working together. When Tommy could no longer stand the build up inside of him, he excused himself. “Hey, I’m sorry guys. Nature calls and all that, and these days, she’s a fickle mistress. I’m going to be indisposed for a while. Mike, it was nice meeting you.”
“No problem, Mr. Borata. I enjoyed the evening, and I’m sorry about the blow-up. Tell Mrs. Borata thank you for me.”
They all shook hands, and Tommy hugged his son before making his way back upstairs to the bathroom. Each step became a challenge to make it before he exploded. He fought to avoid ending the night by embarrassing his son further.
Gasping and fighting his own body, clamping his rectum closed, he pushed open the bathroom door and worked at his belt furiously. He had just unfastened it and was trying to yank his pants and underwear down to get on the toilet when a torrent of explosive diarrhea let loose. He stumbled, his pants half down, and crashed onto the toilet.
“Everything okay up there?” he heard Bobby yell from downstairs.
He struggled to breathe, exhausted from the effort, his body still trying to purge itself. “All good, just a little slip. I’m fine, don’t come up here, believe me!” he responded, kicking the door shut.
“Alright. We’re heading out, Dad. Love you,” he heard Bobby reply.
Holding his breath, he tried to remove his soaked clothing while still sitting on the toilet. He breathed in, and overcome by the stench, he felt the nausea grab hold of him. So many enemies within me. Launching himself from the toilet, he fell to his knees in front of the tub and yanked the shower curtains out of his way, stripping them from the pole. As he vomited into the tub, the plastic shower curtain rings rained down from above, onto his head and into the growing pool of vomit.
He stayed in the bathroom a long time, until the attacks were well over. The fan helped with the stench, but there was an awful mess to clean up. It brought him back to when Moses had had a similar attack, and he’d been there to help his friend through it, to clean him up and get him to bed. Depressed, he began to take care of the mess himself. There’s nobody here for me. No one to help. Nobody like that, anyway.
BOBBY AND MIKE WALKED out toward the car.
“Well, that went marvelously,” Bobby said to Mike sarcastically.
“It just proved that your family is as screwed up as mine,” Mike said, hugging him.
“Easy...neighbors,” Bobby said, looking around nervously. Then he laughed. “Now look who’s in a rush to get out of the closet.”
“We’re getting there. Like you said, tonight was a big step. I’m happy we did this.”
“I’m happy it’s over,” Bobby answered. “I can’t believe we just took that step, after dreaming about it for so long.”
“You coming over for a while?”
�
�Yeah. I’d like to stay the night. I’m not sure I want to be around for whatever happens next here.”
18 Private Eye
The stench from the dumpster they were hiding behind was overwhelming.
Tommy took up a pair of binoculars as Molletier crouched next to him, peering through an identical pair. “You sure this is the right motel, and that’s the right room?” Tommy asked. “You got this all scoped out?”
“I am a private detective,” Molletier responded factually. “I am very good at what I do. Just watch.” He paused. “You’re sure you want to see this?” he added, with uncharacteristic empathy.
“It is what it is,” Tommy said, doing his best to hide his emotions. “I have to know what I’m dealing with.”
The sheer curtain in the first-floor room they were observing was slid three-quarters of the way across the window. They could only see the foot of the bed and a television on the dresser, which flickered with a mindless reality show.
The sound of an approaching car caught Tommy’s attention. He looked through the binoculars across the darkened parking lot. As he adjusted the dials and the focus sharpened, he saw it at the far end, barely lit by the motel’s neon sign. Margie’s fucking car. The small hope he’d held that this was all some kind of coincidence was dashed.
He watched as she parked in a dark corner, then turned on the dome light and adjusted the rearview mirror to apply her makeup. She got out of the car and hurried across the lot, glancing around nervously.
For a moment, he wanted to pretend it wasn’t her, that he was dreaming and he’d wake up any minute. He resisted the impulse to run to her and beg her not to do this. He wanted to convince himself she and his brother-in-law hadn’t done anything yet, that it would be the first time, and thus everything would be easier to forgive—that they would cry together, profess their love, make everything right, and be happy together again for whatever time he had left.
Instead, he remained silent and held his position.
A few minutes later, there was movement in the room as a silhouetted figure rose from the bed, moved to the door, and opened it. A woman entered from the hall, still in shadow, and they became one. They briefly moved to the area of the window that wasn’t obstructed by the curtain, and he could see them clearly through the binoculars. My wife and my brother-in-law. I’ll fucking kill you, Jack. He could tell they were laughing and holding each other close. I haven’t seen her laugh in so long. I wonder if it sounds the same.
“This is not easy,” Molletier said. “You should go. Let me handle things. I can run the camera.” He had swapped his binoculars for a camcorder, and Tommy could hear its gears whirring as the tape spun inside it.
“No,” Tommy answered. “I can handle it.” He returned to his binoculars, mesmerized by the scene inside the room. They’re leaving the light on. She never liked the light on when we did it. Maybe she was thinking about him then, in the dark with me. They moved toward the bed, the area obscured by the curtain, and he watched as their shadows disrobed, leaving their naked silhouettes standing and facing each other for a moment, kissing before they both lay down on the bed. She’s lost weight. I hadn’t noticed. The television was switched to a pay-per-view pornographic movie. She always said she hated that stuff.
Then the ballet began, the two of them moving in unison, making love in various positions. He watched as the knot in his stomach became larger by the moment, as she rode above her lover, rocking. He watched as they switched and he mounted her, their lower legs and feet now visible at the foot of the bed, interlocking, and intertwining. The movement became more frenetic, and he saw his brother-in-law arch up and finish making love to his wife in a spastic conclusion. Huh. One thing, he’s got no stamina.
He put the binoculars down. The eyepieces had fogged up, and he realized he was crying. His voice broke as he tried to speak. “Well, that sucked. I guess you were right. He ain’t shit, Sensei.” When he didn’t get a response, he looked over to Molletier’s position and saw that he was gone. He looked at the top of the dumpster and saw the camcorder, still whirring. Oh, shit. Oh, no. He stood, turned the camera off, and picked up his binoculars, refocusing on the room.
They were up now, and the silhouettes began to dress. He saw her shut herself in the bathroom. Then he saw Jack move toward the hotel room door. Uh-oh. Here we go...
As Jack reached for the knob and pulled the door open, another hand reached inside and flipped off the light switch. In the remaining glow from the television, he saw a flurry of movement. Two shadowed bodies flew around the room, while an orgy took place on the TV screen. Another shadow joined from the bathroom, and he could hear a woman’s scream. A lamp went over, and then the television, and then the light came back on, and there was only one shadow—Margie, standing over what he presumed to be his brother-in-law lying on the carpet.
19 Job Offer
Bobby sat at his desk, trying to work while nervously checking the door to the station house. He could feel the effect of his anxiety and the several cups of coffee he had consumed on his heart rate. He spent the time wondering again why he was spending his life in a job he detested, around people he despised, only to please his father. I’m going to quit. I just hope Dad’s really okay with it.
He heard a commotion outside and knew immediately that it was Carson and whatever follower he was partnered with that day. Probably Jackson, as usual. His stomach began to churn as he quickly retreated to the screen of his computer and the work he was supposed to be doing.
The door swung open, and his antagonist entered. “Good day, good day, you macho men and women in blue! I’m so proud to be part of a group of macho individuals such as yourselves. Make way for the biggest, baddest wolf in the den.”Carson made his way through the room slowly, making sure all eyes were on him.
Bobby felt him coming closer and closer until finally, he sensed him standing there, looming over him as he pretended to concentrate on his work.
“Bobby, my boy. Don’t you agree? A cop should be a macho, macho man, right? Not like that bunch of gay dudes in that stupid group that sang the song. Who was it, Village People? Right? Can’t believe they had a gay guy dressed like a cop in that group. I mean, how do you do this job if you aren’t a macho individual? The people expect it of us, right? They don’t want a bunch of bozos for cops, do they, Bobby?”
Bobby felt his face burn. He knew that Carson was aware of his embarrassment and was enjoying it and that the entire station was watching him hold court. “Yeah, Carson. Whatever you say. I’m kind of busy,” he responded without looking.
His unease built as he waited to be outed in front of everyone he worked with, kicking off a long period of gossip and snickering behind his back. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, to be anywhere but there in that moment. It reminded him of when he was a kid: the waiting for inevitable, horrible things, and wishing for doors to open for him to escape through.
Carson leaned forward, sticking his head over Bobby’s desk. “Listen, Bobby,” he said in a whisper. “How’d you like to get out from behind that desk and do some real police work? Toughen up a bit. Make your old man proud of you, while you’re still here.”
Bobby processed the words, calculating them from every angle he could. He wondered if Carson was possibly sincere. Maybe he thinks he can change me. I could make Dad proud, just once, before I quit. He’d be so happy to hear I was on the street, like him. Maybe I can get something on Carson, and get him to leave Dad alone.
He decided he would do anything to escape the current situation, and turned to Carson. “You know what? I think I’ll take you up on that.” He said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
Carson stood up with a triumphant air. “Niiice,” he said loudly. “Ladies and gents, this is what I’m talking about. Here’s a man that wants to get out from behind the desk and do real police work.” The others had grown weary of his show and were no longer paying attention.
He turned back to Bobby and spoke in a
normal volume since he’d lost his audience. “Okay, so here’s the deal. Jackson and I are going to stake out an abandoned warehouse on the South Side. There’s drug trafficking going on there. You and I will observe from the upper floor; Jackson will enter from the ground on our signal, and we’ll take them down. Hard.”
Bobby’s apprehension returned at the thought of being involved in something that dangerous. He tried to put on his best front and not let Carson know. “I’m in,” he said, in a strong voice, the one his father had taught him.
“Excellent, m’boy,” Carson said. “Full tactical gear. I imagine you haven’t had yours on in some time. Better get it out and make sure it fits, if you know what I mean. Maybe trade up for a larger size if you need to.”
“I’ve been through the training every year, Carson. Just like everyone else.”
“Good, then. In a couple of days, you, Jackson, and I will go through the whole plan in the conference room, then we’ll head out and scope the place out before we execute the plan and kick ass. Probably Monday—I’ll let you know. Maybe there’ll be a nice commendation or something in it for you. Have a nice weekend there, Boz—I mean, Bobby.” He slapped Bobby on the back and smirked at him menacingly.
Bobby went about his work and Carson moved on, appearing to be satisfied.
Another officer came over and stood by Bobby’s desk. “You sure you’re okay with going on an operation with that idiot?” he asked Bobby.
Bobby looked up with frustration. “Why the fuck does everyone here think I can’t do my job? That’s exactly the reason I have to do it.”
“Alright, alright. I wasn’t saying that. I’m saying that I would be nervous myself going out with Carson. Something’s wrong with that guy. Suit yourself, Bobby.”
The officer walked away, and Bobby went back to his computer, pulling up the training manual on tactical operations to try to refresh his memory on the equipment and protocol.
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