Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  Plus, he’d used Bernie’s new business venture to lure him into his web using a voice modifier and a telephone. And now, the goddamn kid sat next to him in the passenger seat. Bernie couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t been this infuriated since—

  Heh.

  He couldn’t remember.

  He rolled his thick-wristed hands over the steering wheel. As long as the little shit didn’t say a word, he could contain himself. No such luck.

  Jacky cleared his throat and said, “I gave you a thousand dollars.”

  Bernie smacked open the console bucket, pulled out the manila envelope and dropped it in Jacky’s lap, all without saying a word.

  Jacky said, “You can keep it, Mr. Bernie.”

  Bernie didn’t react, just kept glaring forward driving the car.

  Jacky tightened his face, still uncomfortable. “The guy back there—he wasn’t actually cheating. That’s a good thing, right?” Jacky said, forcing a smile.

  Bernie offered no response.

  Mind spinning, Jacky made a pathetic chuckle. “That house back there—looked like Tetris, didn’t it?”

  They turned onto Salvadore.

  Jacky shrank, looked back out the window. He shot a look back at Bernie and said, “Hey—I betcha didn’t know; I turned twenty-one. Yep, just last month, in fact,”

  Bernie continued ignoring him.

  “Hey,” Jacky said, “I could buy you a drink. It’d be like me making it up to you and all, Mr. Bernie.”

  He clicked his tongue and sneered, “Kid.” It was a warning. In other words—shut the fuck up.

  Jacky looked back out the window. The city was coming up on them. Their destination was closing. He shook his head to himself, desperately. He couldn’t let it end this way.

  Mission: failed.

  He looked back at Bernie and blurted out, “I get it. You’re mad. I pissed you off. You don’t like me. I know that. Not a whole lot of people do. I just—” he huffed, trying to place his words correctly, “I don’t know how to make friends much, okay? Or maybe they just don’t get me, or whatever. You—you probably have a lot of friends, right?”

  Bernie made a sour face, all somber and angry.

  Jacky said, “Okay, well—maybe you don’t. I don’t know. Whatever. But this isn’t about me. Look, I need your help, Mr. Bernie. I can do all kinds of stuff you can’t—computers and systems and stuff. But I’m no good at the stuff you can do. You can punch people in the face, and stomp on people, and break their arms, and shoot things. I can’t do any of that stuff.”

  He stared at Bernie, reading and hoping. The big man showed no change. Jacky continued, “Shoot, I—I can’t even drive a car. I drive a moped. Did you know that?” He swallowed courageously and muttered, “I’ve never even been laid. I’ve never even done that.” He shook his head, snapped back and declared, “Mr. Bernie—help me find Professor Erter, man. Please, Mr. Bernie. You gotta help me find Professor Erter.”

  Bernie rolled to a stop at the bus station drop-off dock. He turned and stared daggers into the kid and muttered, “Out.”

  “Mr. Bernie.”

  “Kid.” Another warning. Get the fuck out.

  Jacky deflated. His shoulders dropped and a final exhalation issued from him. He gave a sad look at Bernie, opened the door and got out. Closing the door he looked at all the people meandering through the bus station, watched them with their dour faces, all trying not to make eye contact, trying not to initiate any connection with the people around them. They all looked friendless. It made Jacky feel sick to his gut, and for the first time a sincere flash of anger coursed through him. Frowning, he turned back around and punched Bernie’s passenger window screaming, “Hey, fuck you, asshole!”

  Bernie turned his head slowly to look at him, his face never changing.

  “Yeah, you heard me, you—you stupid knuckle-dragger!” Jacky shouted. “Yeah, I get it. He killed your girlfriend, man, I get it! He took her out and now she’s dead and stuff, and now you’re all alone and everything! But so what, Bernie? I mean, you killed his girlfriend, too! Threw her off a freaking building, dude!”

  Bernie’s face changed into a look of panic. The little puke was screaming his guilt in the Starlet Killer case for the whole world to hear. He thumbed down the passenger window thrusting a threatening finger at Jacky and yelled, “Shut your mouth, kid!”

  Jacky took a step back and yelled, “Yeah, I was there, you—you big monkey brain, in ways you’ll never understand. Saw the whole thing.”

  Bernie threw open his door, got out and pounded a fist into the top of his car. “Shut your mouth!”

  “But, I mean, at least you’ll get another shot at having a chick or a woman or whatever, if you want it. If you don’t stop crying about it and, like, burying yourself with all this ‘look at me, I’m a big loser’ bullshit.”

  Bernie was on his way around the car, stomping toward Jacky.

  “But what about Professor Erter?” Jacky said, backing away. “You think guys like him would get another shot at it? Hell no. Forget it. That was his one shot at, like, being with a chick and stuff. It ain’t gonna happen again. Not for guys like Professor Erter, because he’s all weird and everything.”

  Bernie stopped dead in his tracks, huffing and heaving.

  Jacky stopped, too, looking at him, tears accumulating in his eyes. “But he’s your friend, dickhead. Probably the only friend you’ll ever get. He needs you, dude. He needs you!”

  Bernie looked around at the crowd. Faces had changed. They all looked at the commotion, some trying to ignore. Bernie shifted his gaze to Jacky one last time, then spun back toward his car.

  Jacky screamed out in one final, desperate note, “What’re you gonna do about that, Mr. Bernie?”

  Bernie got in and slammed the door, hard.

  What’re you gonna do about that, Bernie?

  It was the same line William Erter had used when they first met. It was the one line that had teased him into action, even if against his will. Bernie sniffled thinking back on that time. He remembered. He remembered all too well. His next stop had been to visit the one person in his life he could turn to for advice, the one human being whose opinions he gave a damn about.

  Iva.

  He had turned to Iva.

  38

  Iva

  Iva had been cremated. She’d left no will or last requests, and no one had known her system of faith. At the time, Bernie had been strapped down in a padded room going berserk, so no one had asked him. It seemed William had made all the necessary arrangements. He had been the closest thing to a family Iva had available. Unable to burden any of the expenses, he had opted to have her remains stored in a niche at the Los Angeles County Cemetery over on Lorena. It was a public affair for an anonymous death.

  Bernie approached the outdoor columbarium through the night. The place remained lit at all hours. His feet crunched through the grass. He hated this place. Maybe it was a beautiful final resting place for any soul, but it housed everything Bernie feared to face. His vulnerability was here. Everything he’d ever cared about was here, in ashes.

  He stepped up onto the stone basin removing his hat and facing the memorial wall. There were rows of tiny plaques over tiny sealed hatches. He knew where she was. Standing before her, he raised a hand and drew a heavy finger across her nameplate.

  Sarah “Iva” Corrington. May 25, 1977 — March 27, 2017.

  “Hi, baby,” he muttered. “Didn’t bring no flowers. Sorry. I just—it always seemed dumb to me, bringing flowers. But, I guess you already know that.” Stepping back he suddenly felt buzzy and light-headed. He slumped down on the stone bench, tired and empty. “I miss you, baby. I wish—oh, I don’t know. Never was good at this talking shit. I just. Sometimes. I just …” He growled punching his hat with his other hand and looking into her plaque, eyes misting over, angry and sad at the same time.

  “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I hate this. I want you back. And
you’re not here. I hate going to bed. I hate getting up. Jesus—I hate everything in between. I hate it. And I just—I don’t know what to goddamn do.” A tear rolled hot down his cheek and he swiped it away, pissed off at himself. “I don’t want to do this, okay? I’m strong, I’m strong. But I’m—I can’t take it.” He could no longer hold himself up, not even sitting on the bench, and he slid off onto the ground, both hands resting firmly on the basin, sneering, “goddammit, goddammit, goddammit!” He looked up feeling utterly depleted, as if some coward inside him had unzipped him and folded all his skin away and stepped out, weak and stupid. “Tell me what to do, baby. I need your help, goddammit. Tell me what to do.”

  Bernie’s moment of self-loathing was deep and unrelenting. It buried him inside himself, made him find comfort in wailing. Then, as suddenly as a storm dissipating, he forced it back, jammed it away, overwhelmed it with more disgust and anger than he thought he possessed.

  Get up, you fucking baby!

  He slapped the smooth, stone ground with an open palm sending a thunder crack into the cemetery loud enough to wake the dead, or at least loud enough to snap him up. Plus the stinging pain in his hand wrenched his mind back around, sobered him up, and he was back on his feet. He adjusted his shirt looking around in the dark, bearing a bitter look. Iva wasn’t here. Just her ashes. He would find no words from her, no soothing answers to all his questions. Coming here was useless. Worse—it was stupid. He slapped his hat back on his head, turned and marched off.

  He drove straight to the nearest liquor store pulling into its parking lot. The lights were off. The place was empty. He looked at his watch. Almost eleven—Dammit! They’d been closed for almost an hour. He sat huffing in his car. His face was swollen from his moment of pity, eyes all red, skin puffy. He hadn’t had so much as a sip in four months, but he was angry enough and bitter enough at the whole fucking world to slam a fifth right now.

  He blinked, remembering something. A secret bottle of sweet Jack Daniels. He knew where one was.

  He steered around and merged with traffic on the thoroughfare headed back toward Hacienda Heights, a place he hadn’t been in almost half a year. He figured if he could face her final resting place, he was sure he could face her place of death. He headed back to his old home.

  The closer he got, the more nervous he grew. He hadn’t expected to feel a thing. He’d always been numb to crime scenes. And he’d seen it all. Bodies in cars, bloated for weeks. Babies in trash bins, all blue and stiff. Disfigured crime victims found in parks.

  But this was different. This was personal. This was where Iva had been murdered.

  He pulled up to the curb looking at his old house. It was empty inside. A moving crew had dumped all his shit at Goodwill or the Salvation Army. Contractors had cleaned and repaired what damage he’d caused the night they’d found her body. The yardman still came around. There was a For Sale sign. No one wanted to buy the house, though. It was the scene of a gruesome murder. It was a death nail for homebuyers. Bernie didn’t care. In truth, he would sooner see it burn down.

  Except for one thing.

  He got out and moved to the door starting to tremble. He wasn’t a nervous guy. He never had been. But now, he couldn’t stop the shakes. He keyed open the door and pushed it open slowly. The place was dark. He put a hand on his gun instinctively, and stepped in. There was no danger here, only memory—and that was dangerous enough.

  He flipped on the light switch. The electricity bill was paid up. The lights came on, though the AC hadn’t been run in months. Everything looked fresh. The walls had been painted, the carpet steamed. The huge living room mirror was still hung on the wall.

  It was perfect, but Bernie hated it here. This fucking place was a tomb. He stood in the middle of the living room looking around. He could see the past play out. Twenty years of his life had been spent here. He’d made love to Iva all over the house. He could still hear her voice, the cloudy, smoky calm of it; he could still hear her laughter, too, her blurty, almost dry singsong version of humor.

  He jerked his head back and forth. No—forget it. Get what you came for, and get the fuck out of here!

  He stormed through the kitchen and into the garage flipping on the light. He went to a workbench, slid the bottom drawer open. There was an inner compartment. He threw it open, reached in and there it was—Jack Daniels Black Label. His secret stash. It’d been sitting in there for years waiting for the right moment. And this was it. He smiled. It wasn’t joy or happiness. It was relief. He pulled up the bottle staring into it. God, he suddenly felt intimidated by it. Why did he feel intimidated?

  He left in a rush turning off lights behind him. He stormed through the living room and to the front door, but came to a sudden stop with his hand on the knob. He stared at the door. On the other side of it was the world. It wanted him to change. There was rebirth waiting for him out there. It wanted him to kill the drinker, kill the cop, kill the scrapper, become a bigger, better thing.

  His gaze dropped to the bottle in his hand. It wanted the opposite. It loved Bernie, wanted him to stay the same. With that bottle, he would find comfort in his pain. But what did he want? Who did he want to become?

  Everyone had advice for him. Go to group. Stop drinking. Set goals. Get lost in your work. Sleep it off. Find a church. It made him crazy. His old buddy, Jack, had become a distraction. Or was all that just a bunch of horseshit? He didn’t know, couldn’t decide.

  He slid his hand away from the doorknob and turned around slowly. It was time for a decision. Slowly, he lumbered into the kitchen and to the sink. He twisted the lid off the whiskey and was clobbered by its scent immediately. It made him roll his eyes back. It was juicy and spicy. It made him swoon. But maybe the world was right. He’d never considered that before. Maybe Dr. Weisman was right—“You have to let go of your control to those who view you with objection.”

  He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded important. Holding his breath under a glum face, he lifted the bottle over the sink and started pouring. The liquid sloshed out through the neck going glug glug glug as it poured into the sink. The agony was a physical sensation. It nearly made him collapse. Was it right to kill the old Bernie like this? Was it wrong? He didn’t know; all he could do was watch that beautiful river of golden brown slosh into the sink making him hold his breath.

  “Bernie!”

  He spun around, chilled to the bone and plopped the bottle half-full onto the counter. He heard that. He goddamn heard that! But no one was there. Just an empty house.

  “Who—”

  His eyes danced back and forth. Empty walls. An empty living room. An empty mirror that only showed his reflection from across the house.

  Wait!

  He squinted. Leaned forward. That reflection—it wasn’t him. It was Iva. She looked back at him with that look she always gave him as he handed her money for her services. It was a little hurt, a little shamed, but resigned to doing what must be done.

  “Come here, sugar,” she said.

  He touched his chest as if to ask, me?

  “Yeah you, you big lug. Come here, baby,” she said.

  He felt his breath catch in his throat, felt emotion bring tears to his eyes. He wiped them not wanting to lose focus. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t sleeping. So, what the hell was going on?

  “Iva?” he said without voice.

  “Come closer, sugar,” she said.

  He moved forward through the dining room and into the living room with his eyes glued to that image of Iva. It should have been his own reflection, but it wasn’t. It was her. By God, it was Iva.

  He stepped forward swallowing down his doubt and put a hand up to the glass, on her face. “Is this real?”

  She made her characteristic how ridiculous face and said, “What does that mean? Look baby, when you leave where you are and come to where I am, you’re going to figure out real fast what we think is real, or what we think isn’t real—none of that stuff matters. I mean seriously, ba
be—what is real, anyway?”

  He blinked, took a step back, shocked to his bones. It was real. It was real! There she was. They were face to face. “Got a smoke, baby?” she asked.

  “Uh—yeah,” he said, pulling out his pack of Camels.

  “Light it?” she said sweetly.

  He lit one and handed it to her. She took it, pulling it back through the mirror and dragging on it. Her eyes rolled in ecstasy. “Oh God, thank you, babe.”

  His eyes darted left and right, then he said, “You’re welcome?”

  She gave him a ridiculous look with a cocked head and asked, “Baby, what are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your Jacky Black—you’re pouring it out, sweetheart,” she said.

  He looked back at the bottle of Jack sitting half-full on the kitchen counter, looked back at her. “I—” he cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know what I’m doing, babe. I don’t know anything anymore.” He looked into her with big, sad puppy eyes. “I,” he swallowed, struggling with his words. “I miss you.”

  Her eyes went down in thought, then back up. “I don’t miss you, Bernie.”

  He gave her a hurt look. “You don’t?”

  “No.” She took a drag, blew out. “Because I see you every day, all the time. I get to watch you, sweetie.” Her face made a devilish, charming grin, and she said, “Even when you try to jack off, but you can’t because it won’t get hard—yeah, I see that, too.” She puckered and said, “Well, I guess I miss that part.”

  It made him chuckle dryly. “I wish—I wish you were here, baby,” he admitted.

  “I know you do, babe, but you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I like it here.”

  He blinked. “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s better here. I don’t worry about anything anymore.” She took a drag. “Actually,” she blew smoke out and said, “it’s fucking unbelievable.”