Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  “I figured, what the hell? I’d come all that way. What harm was there in talking to the kid’s sister? Shit, they’re lucky I was there. The condition she was in, she was another tragedy waiting to happen.”

  Dennis laughed. “Careful there, Ray. With all the spinning you’re doing, you’re gonna get dizzy. And, yes,” he said, the lightness in his voice disappearing, “I will take a ride up to the hospital and speak with the family. What you did was stupid, but I do think you’re right about this being too much of a coincidence.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “I never said thank you. I just said you were right. See the difference?”

  I didn’t care about the difference. I was just happy he was going to look into Jack Quinn.

  “Thanks, Dennis.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” I thought he was going to hang up, when he said, “Just out of curiosity.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You still doing those Thursday night dinners with Rachel?”

  “You’ve got a good memory, Dennis.”

  “Helps with the job.”

  “Yeah, we’re still getting together. Why?”

  “Just asking,” he said. Liar. “Hey, Ray?”

  “Yes, Dennis?”

  “You mind if I give her a call?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  He laughed. “I believe you referred to me as, quote, ‘A shitty boyfriend.’”

  I thought back to my last conversation with Rachel. The one where she’d told me I’d overstepped my bounds and that she could handle things herself.

  “You go ahead, Dennis. You’re both grown-ups.”

  “Thanks, Ray,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And stay the hell away from my case.” Now he hung up.

  I put my phone into my front pocket and went back over to Edgar. Before he could ask, I said, “Murcer’s going to the hospital.”

  “So he appreciated your help?”

  “Appreciate is not the word I would use, no. Let’s just say he reluctantly agreed with me and made sure to remind me of my obligation to stay out of his way.”

  “He’s just afraid you’ll show him up.”

  “No, Edgar, he’s right.” I sat down and grabbed my beer. “I was out of line this afternoon. I’m lucky that—”

  My cell rang again. Mr. Popularity all of a sudden. I saw it was Allison and stepped away from the bar again.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey back.” She seemed to be in a good mood. “You at The LineUp?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Taking the night off.”

  “And spending it at the place where you should be working. I know I’ve only known you for less than a week, but you are a creature of habit.”

  “I am?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a bad thing.” She paused, waiting for me to respond. When I didn’t, she said, “And how was your day?”

  “Not bad,” I said. I told her about the trip to the hospital and my phone call with Murcer. “So all in all, a productive day.”

  “Maybe I should head over to the hospital myself tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t expect much cooperation from the family, Allison.”

  “No, probably not, but maybe I can find a chatty nurse or doctor. It’s amazing what people will tell you when they think they’re going to be quoted in the paper.”

  “On or off the record?”

  “Both. Mostly off, but I can get around that by quoting a ‘hospital spokesperson’ or a ‘source close to the family.’ Either way, my editor’s going to dig this new angle. Two dead kids and another on the edge.”

  “You guys really get off on other people’s tragedies, don’t you?” I said.

  “Don’t start with that, Ray,” Allison said. “You were the one who called me and asked for the piece on Douglas. Mom wanted something in the papers, and you were more than willing to oblige her.” She waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, she continued. “This is a good story. Shit, it’s turning into an actual mystery. You know how often that actually happens in a reporter’s career? Excuse me for getting excited, but this is what I do for a living. Do you really want to debate this, Ray?”

  She was right. She did me a solid when I asked for one. It wasn’t her fault the case got complicated. I was the one who called her about Jack Quinn. “No. I don’t.” I rubbed my eyes. “I want to find out what happened to Dougie.”

  “The same thing I want,” she said. “And the info you just gave me is going to help me to do that. If we have to put up with a few flashy headlines to get there, that’s the price of the ride, tough guy.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”

  “I hope you do. I wouldn’t want this story to get in the way of…”

  I smiled. “No. Neither would I. Speaking of which…”

  “Let me call you tomorrow, Ray. Between the basketball player paternity story and now Jack Quinn, I’m not going to have a lot of time for socializing, I’m afraid.”

  “Right.” And here I am with nothing but time. I looked over at Edgar. “Let’s talk soon,” I said to Allison.

  “You bet, Ray. Thanks for understanding. See ya.”

  “Yeah. See ya.”

  After we both hung up, I stared out the front window for a while, watching the headlights of the cars and trucks heading toward the entrance ramp of the BQE. My phone started to vibrate in my hand. I again recognized the number and looked over at the bar. “What do you want, Edgar?” I said into the phone.

  “Hey, Ray,” he said, laughing. “Just thought it’d be funny if I called you.”

  “And how’d that work out?” I hung up and walked over to him. “I was trying to get my thoughts together.”

  “Sorry. You just looked like you needed a laugh.”

  I got back on my stool. “It’s okay, Edgar. It’s been a long day.”

  “I hear ya, brother.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the working man.”

  I picked up my glass and tapped his. “Here’s to him,” I said. “That was Allison,” I explained. “She’s going to follow up on her end with Jack Quinn.”

  “Excellent,” Edgar said. “Between her and your detective friend, you’ve had a pretty good day, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I have.”

  “You guess? You got the newspaper and the cops backing your play, Raymond. You are the man.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t make too much out of it.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “But, Jeez, don’t you make too little out of it.” He raised his hand to get Mikey’s attention. “At the very least, it deserves another round.”

  “It’s a school night, Edgar.” I thought back to the morning’s hangover. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do, Ray.” Edgar looked at me and gave me what I guessed he thought was his all-knowing smile. “Yes, you do.”

  I looked back at him and had to admit it. He was right. This did deserve another round. “All right,” I said. “One more.”

  “Cool.” He got Mikey’s attention and motioned with two fingers that we needed another round. “Besides,” Edgar said, pointing up to the TV, “they’re playing the Yankees–Red Sox game from 2003. Clemens against Pedro?”

  I looked up at the set. “Pretty good game.”

  “Yeah.” Edgar’s smile got bigger. “Remember? Roger put one up high and tight to Ramirez, and Manny almost went nuts.”

  “Nothing like a little chin music to back a guy off the plate,” I said.

  “Yeah. Pitch wasn’t even that close, but it did its job. Got things going, all right. It was a different game after that.”

  Edgar is right, I thought, as Mikey put our drinks in front of us. Amazing how one moment—one fraction of a second—could change the whole ballgame.

  Chapter 15

  WEDNESDAY WAS ONE OF THOSE school days that went by so fast it was three o’clock before I remembere
d I hadn’t eaten lunch. I’d had a lot of days like that these first few months as dean, and I must have lost at least ten pounds. Who needed the gym when I had to patrol all over the building looking for kids cutting class, go up and down three flights of stairs, depending on where the latest crisis was; or walk at least two miles around the cafeteria during my lunch duty? Depending on whom I talked to, I was either in the best shape since I’d left the force, or I was too thin. Either way, there was a big part of me that was glad for the busy days, because I wasn’t much for sitting around, waiting for stuff to happen.

  After making sure the kids had moved away from the building and the playground was not being used as a wrestling ring, I went back inside to make a call to Dougie’s mom. I wanted to see how she was doing and also felt obligated to give her a heads-up about the story that might show up in the papers about Dougie’s two friends from school. She picked up after two rings and seemed genuinely happy to hear my voice. She told me she had just gotten back from church.

  “It’s good to have support at times like this,” I said.

  “Yes,” she agreed, not sounding too convinced. “It is.”

  I proceeded to tell her the stories of Paulie Sherman’s death and Jack Quinn’s hospitalization. I also told her about running into her brother-in-law outside the hospital. She let out a heavy sigh and said she remembered the boys from the wake, and knew her brother-in-law was John Quinn’s lawyer.

  “Did Dougie have a girlfriend, Mrs. Lee?” I asked.

  “If he did,” she said, “he didn’t tell me about it. You know how teenage boys are with their mothers. It was all I could do sometimes to get him to tell me what he wanted for dinner.” She paused. “Last couple of weeks, he spent most of his time in his room on the computer. I barely saw him except when he came out to the kitchen or bathroom.”

  “Did he ever mention an Elliot Finch?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. I could practically hear the smile on her face. “He was very fond of that young man. He told me he joined just to be nice to Elliot, but I think he came to enjoy his time exchanging messages with the other members. He ‘chatted’ with them more than he talked to me, I’m afraid.” I could hear her catch her breath. “Maybe if he knew … if he had any idea how little…” She started crying. I stayed quiet. Half a minute later, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Lee. I think you’re handling this very well. Better than most people, I would say.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Mr. Donne. I’m sure you heard lots of crying when you were a policeman.”

  “And even more now that I’m a teacher.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know why that’s funny, but it is.”

  We both got quiet for a while—me thinking of what else there was to say, and Mrs. Lee thinking whatever the mothers of recently murdered children think. I couldn’t even imagine. The silence was uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to be the one to end the conversation.

  As if reading my mind, she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about something you and the detective both asked me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You both asked if Douglas’s behavior was any different before … what happened.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry if the question bothered you. Sometimes I slip back into cop mode without even thinking about it.”

  “No, it’s quite all right. It got me to thinking.” She paused again to collect her thoughts. “I mentioned Douglas was having trouble sleeping the past few weeks.”

  “Yes, I remember you said that.”

  “There was something else, though.”

  I waited for her to say what it was. When it took too long, I said, “Something else, Mrs. Lee?”

  “He’d been talking more to his father the past month or so. He’d call him on his cell phone and talk for quite some time.”

  “How often did he talk to his father?”

  “A few times a week, from what I could tell.” Anticipating my next question, she said, “Before that, they’d go months without talking. Douglas never seemed to have much need to talk to William, and William was not the type to reach out much.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “Oh, I don’t have any idea. Most of the time, Douglas would take the phone into his room or out on the back steps. I didn’t want to be nosy, so I never asked.”

  “Where does his father live?” I asked. “Dougie rarely talked about him.”

  “I’m not sure of that, either, I’m afraid. I think I know where he spends most of his time, though.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Do you know the old bar on Graham Avenue?” she asked. “Right on the corner. The one with no sign? I think it might have been called Ruth’s a long time ago.”

  I closed my eyes to try and picture the place she was talking about. It didn’t take long. Back in the day, I’d been called there a few times to clean up a mess and ended up giving more than one patron a ride home. A few I’d taken straight to the hospital.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re right. It might have been called Ruth’s. I don’t even know if it has a name anymore. I’m surprised it’s still there.”

  “Oh, it’s still there, Mr. Donne. I don’t keep tabs on William, you understand, but I hear from folks he still goes there. They’ve seen him outside smoking or leaning up against the wall, talking with another drunk.”

  “Did Dougie ever see his father drunk?”

  “Not that I know of, and not if I could help it. I saw the writing on the wall and told him to get out before Douglas got old enough to know what his daddy was up to when he should’ve been home being a father.”

  “So,” I said, “if I wanted to talk with him…”

  “Don’t know why you would, but I’m sure you’ll find him there.”

  “Any time of day in particular?”

  “Knowing William?” she said. “Sometime between opening and closing.”

  I looked at my watch. Almost three thirty.

  “Well, Mrs. Lee,” I said. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Donne. It was nice of you to call. And thank you again for keeping the papers interested in Douglas. How is that lovely young reporter, by the way?”

  Mothers. “She’s fine, Mrs. Lee. I’ll tell her you asked for her.”

  “You do that,” she said. “And be sure to tell her I said thank you.”

  “I will. Take care.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Donne.”

  After we hung up, I slipped my phone into my pocket and grabbed my coat. I had plans to meet my sister at seven, but I decided it was time to finally meet Dougie’s father.

  Chapter 16

  AS I ENTERED THE BAR THAT may or may not have been called Ruth’s, I understood why it might very well have had no name. It was dark—depressingly dark—with the only sources of natural light being the small front window that held the broken neon Budweiser sign and the small window on the side that faced onto the alley. There were three hanging lamps above the bar that gave a yellowish hue to the half dozen or so customers. As my eyes adjusted, I stepped over to the bar, where I was immediately greeted by a man of about sixty who was wiping out the inside of a pint glass with a classic white bar rag.

  “What can I get for ya?” he asked.

  I looked over at the three taps. “What do you have on draft?”

  He told me. I was not impressed. “Anything interesting in a bottle?” I tried.

  “If ya find Bud and Bud Light interesting, yeah. Me? I find ’em all fascinating.”

  “I’ll take a Bud Light. Thanks.” I pulled a twenty from my pocket and sat down on a wooden barstool that had seen better days. The TV behind the bar was tuned to a sports channel. The sound was off, and the colors were not what they were supposed to be. At the moment they were showing a soccer game being played on blue grass. The bartender came over, placed my beer on a napkin, and slid it over in front
of me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Two fifty,” he answered, picking up the twenty and leaving to make change. I watched as he punched the keys on an old cash register. When the drawer slid open, the thing actually made the ching sound. He grabbed some bills and some coins out of the register, closed the drawer, and came back.

  “Seventeen fifty change,” he said.

  “Happy hour?”

  “Look around, friend.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Every hour around here’s happy.”

  I gave him another smile and a nod. After taking a sip of my beer, I asked, “You know William Lee?”

  He placed his hands on the edge of the bar in front of me and squinted. “Who?”

  “William Lee,” I repeated. “I heard he comes here a lot.”

  “Ah, see,” he said. “Here I thought you were just a beer snob. Now I’m guessing you’re some sort of cop.”

  “Why? Do a lot of cops come around here looking for William Lee?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said. “Don’t get too many people around here asking for no one. Why you want to know about Spaceman?”

  “‘Spaceman’?”

  The bartender smiled again. “Oh, yeah. You’re probably too young to know ’bout that, huh?” He paused, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “Red Sox used to have a pitcher. Tall guy, great fastball, better curve. Bill Lee. People called him Spaceman because he was really out there. On the field and off.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” I said. “But why did you call—”

  “Our Bill Lee is a bit like that himself,” he explained. “He’s got some weird ideas, and sometimes the craziest shit comes outta his mouth. Just made sense for folks to start calling him Spaceman. Compliment really, if ya think about it. But nobody calls him William.”

  I took another sip of beer. “So you do know him?”

  “You ain’t a cop?”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Just asking if you know William—Bill Lee.”

  “Know him?” The bartender’s grin got real big now. “Shit, he’s the one sitting at the other end of the bar, pretending he’s watching the soccer game.”

  I took notice of the other customers: two pairs and a single. The pair closest to me was busy reading the same newspaper. The other two seemed to find their glasses of beer to be the most fascinating things they’d seen in a long time. And then there was Bill Lee. Spaceman. A blue baseball cap firmly fixed on his head, and his eyes glued to the soccer game on the TV.