Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

Once again, a cocktail waitress appears out of nowhere the minute I settle in; and, still wary of the evil drink, I order a club soda. My tablemate has no such compunction and she gulps down the martini in front of her and immediately orders another.

  “You should try the martinis here,” she says to me as the dealer doles out another hand. “They’re quite good.”

  “I know,” I say. “They go down a little too easily for me.”

  She smiles and nods. “My name is ‘Cin,’ short for ‘cinnamon,’ not a vice.” She rolls her eyes. “My mother liked the spice.” She extends a hand and I shake it, surprised at its strength.

  “My name is Mattie,” I say. “It’s short for something you don’t want to know.”

  We both laugh and then turn our attention back to our cards. Cin ends up with two 10’s and I get a queen and a nine. We both stay, and the dealer turns over fourteen followed by an eight. We high-five one another over the dealer’s bust; after deciding my table choice was a good one, I up my bet.

  Over the next two hours, I watch as Cin cleans up with one hand after another, rarely losing. But my luck seems to have stopped with the first hand, because nearly every one after that is a loser.

  I bid Cin adieu and decide to play the dollar slots for a while, betting multiple credits and multiple lines. But the cards keep calling to me; and when the slots stop paying out, I cash out and get a credit slip for eighty bucks. Then I settle in at a poker table, eager to try out some different strategies. I look for patterns in the flow of the cards, and I try to keep track of what’s been played, but the dealer’s shoe has multiple decks in it, making it impossible. I win a few nice hands, but it doesn’t take long before I’ve lost the last of my cash.

  I still have the eighty-dollar chit in my purse, so I leave the table and circle the huge room, checking out all the slot machines and trying to decide which one to use. Given that none of my other strategies have worked, I finally settle on a machine that has the most colorful lights. There are black lights running up each side of it, and a rainbow of neon lights below and above. It has a buried treasure/beach theme, and I consider that a good omen, since I’m owed a beach experience.

  I dig into my purse and feel around for the credit slip. Instead, I pull out a folded piece of paper. At first, I have no idea what it is. But when I unfold it, I see it’s the paper from the Strommen house that I used to write down Michael Landon’s phone number. I start to put it back in my purse, when something catches my eye. When I hold the sheet up close to one of the black lights, it reveals a page full of impressions left over from whatever was written on the sheet above it. I angle the paper this way and that, until I can make out the words.

  I read them, stunned by what they reveal, and suddenly everything about the Strommen case starts to make sense. Excited, I grab my coat and head for the main entrance at a fast clip. I’m startled to discover that it’s dark outside; when I glance at my watch, I realize I’ve been at the casino for nearly eight hours. I’m struggling to put on my coat as I step through the doors and into the parking lot. In my distracted state, I step on a patch of snow and ice.

  My right foot slides and my ankle rolls outward, painfully. I manage to remain upright, but there are a few moments of deep-breathing, eyes-squeezed-shut pain before I am able to gimp my way to my car and head home.

  I pull up in front of Hurley’s place half an hour later and limp to his front door. I knock and then ring the doorbell, but I get no answer. His car is there, so I start pounding, instead. I’m about to give up, thinking Hurley is either sleeping or at a neighbor’s place, when he opens the door. His hair is mussed, and his eyes are bloodshot. There is a day’s worth of beard on his face. His clothes are wrinkled, and I notice they are the same ones he was wearing last night.

  “Happy New Year, Mattie,” he says, and the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocks me over.

  “Oh, great,” I say. “How long have you been drinking?”

  He thinks for a second; then he smiles and says, “Since last year.”

  “Very funny.” I push past him into the house, gimping my way into the kitchen and dropping my purse on the table. On my way past the living room, I notice a drink glass and a nearly-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on his coffee table, along with a half-dozen empty beer bottles. There’s also a throw tossed aside; so I guess from this tableau that Hurley spent the night on the couch.

  Hurley closes the front door and shuffles along behind me, dropping into a kitchen chair as I start rummaging through his cabinets, looking for coffee. I find it, and the necessary filters, and start a pot brewing. While it’s dripping, I dig out a plastic bag and fill it with ice cubes; then I take the chair across the table from him and use a third chair to prop my foot on. My ankle doesn’t look very good; it’s turning shades of blue and purple, and it’s swollen to twice its size. I drape the ice over it, wincing, and shift my attention to Hurley.

  “I need you to sober up,” I say.

  “Why?” he says, wearing a goofy grin. “Sober makes me think, and I don’t want to.”

  His words confuse me. “You don’t want to get sober, or you don’t want to think?”

  “Both.”

  “But I need you to do both. I’ve cracked the Strommen case.” I reach over and take the folded piece of paper out of my purse.

  He looks at me through squinted eyes for several seconds and then says, “Okay, I’ll try to think, but I’m not going to feel.” He punctuates the word “not” by jabbing his finger in the air at me.

  “Fair enough,” I say. I unfold the paper, impatient to reveal my discovery. “You don’t have to feel.”

  “But I do, damn it,” he says, looking hound dog sad. “When I’m with you, I feel, and I don’t want to.”

  Great, Hurley, of all the times for you to get emotional. “We’ll talk about us later. Right now, I need you to focus.”

  He frowns and says, “Okay, I’ll be serious.” He narrows his eyes at me again and tries to look stern, but the end result is comical, and I burst out laughing.

  “Maybe you should take a shower while the coffee is brewing,” I say.

  He raises his right arm and sniffs his pit. “Do I stink?”

  “Probably,” I say, not willing to find out. “But more important, you’re drunk.”

  He smiles and drops his arm. “Yeah, I kind of am. Happy New Year!” He shouts this, making me jump. Then he takes on his ridiculous serious look again and says, “Would you take a shower with me?”

  In a heartbeat.

  I gesture toward my ankle. “I’m a bit handicapped at the moment. Can you make it upstairs on your own?”

  He sighs heavily. “Okay, but you have to take a rain check. Or maybe it should be a shower check?” He laughs at his own joke as I roll my eyes. “Okay,” he says, once he’s done laughing. “One shower coming up.” He pushes away from the table, gets up, and shuffles his way toward the stairs. I listen as he climbs them, bracing myself for the worst, but he makes it to the top without falling. After a few minutes, I hear the water come on and the shower door close. For a moment, I imagine myself tiptoeing up the stairs behind him and sneaking a peek at him naked in the shower, but my throbbing ankle convinces me otherwise.

  After twenty minutes, I start to worry. I haven’t heard any loud thumps, so I don’t think Hurley has fallen in the shower, but I wonder if he might have passed out or gone to sleep. Just as I’ve resigned myself to having to climb the stairs to find out, the water shuts off.

  Ten minutes later, Hurley reappears. His eyes are still bloodshot, but he’s dressed in clean clothes and his damp hair smells fresh and wonderful. I get up and limp over to the counter to pour us each a cup of coffee.

  “Do you want something to eat?” I ask him.

  He eyes me skeptically and swallows hard. “Not if you’re going to cook,” he says.

  Well, at least we’re back to reality.

  We sip our respective cups of coffee in silence for a few minutes. Whe
n he seems a bit more recovered, I slide the sheet of paper over to him.

  “What’s this?” he asks, staring at the page. “Why are you giving me the phone number of some guy named Mike?” Before I can answer, he narrows his eyes suspiciously and adds, “Wait a minute, is this the number for your date from last night?”

  “It is, but—”

  “You’re not going to suggest some kinky three- or four-way thing, are you?”

  “Ignore the phone number.”

  “Then why did you give this to me? Do you want me to write ‘I won’t drink anymore’ one hundred times?”

  “No, though that’s not a bad idea,” I say, smiling. “I gave it to you because it’s the top sheet from a pad I found in the Strommen house. There’s a note on it.”

  He stares at the paper for a while, blinking several times and squinting.

  “You can’t see it now, but you will,” I tell him. “First we need to go to Nowhere.”

  He looks up at me with a confused expression. “And you think I’m the one who’s drunk?”

  “The bar,” I explain. “We have to go to the Nowhere bar.”

  Three of the bar owners in town got together years ago and decided to name their bars the Nowhere, the Somewhere, and the Anywhere. It’s easy to end up in the middle of a “Who’s on first?” scenario when talking about them. Given that Hurley’s already in a flummoxed state of mind, I’m determined to avoid that.

  Hurley’s expression turns even more confused. “You want to go drinking? I thought you were trying to sober me up.”

  “I am. I don’t want to go there to drink. I want to go there for the ambience—in particular, the lighting.”

  I watch as Hurley tries to puzzle this out, but he can’t. Finally he shrugs and says, “Okay, Winston. I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, but I’m yours.”

  Maybe soon, I think. Maybe soon.

  Chapter 31

  I load Hurley into my hearse and drive us to the Nowhere bar. It’s pretty packed inside and it takes a few minutes to work our way over to the bar. There are no empty seats, but that’s okay. What I want doesn’t require one. The bartender on duty is a guy named Richie. When he sees us, he heads our way and asks what he can get for us.

  “We’re not here to drink,” I say quickly, lest Hurley be tempted. “I need to borrow something for a few minutes. Do you have that black light you use to scan hand stamps when you have live music with a cover charge?”

  Richie eyes us like we’re crazy, but he’s too busy to worry long about it. “Just a sec,” he says. He disappears into the back and returns a minute later with a small lamp. I take it and lead Hurley back over to the door, where I know there’s an electrical outlet. As soon as I plug it in and turn it on, I take the paper out of my purse, open it up, and shine the light on it.

  “Here, look at the paper now,” I say, handing it to Hurley and shining the light just so. He scans the empty page for a second and suddenly his eyebrows arch. I wait impatiently as he reads it all.

  When he finally looks up at me, he says, “You found this at the Strommen house?”

  “I did. It was in a drawer in the credenza in the dining room. My friend Syph called me when I was looking through the drawer to give me Mike’s number, so I used the pad to write it down. I had no idea what was on it until I saw it under the black light at . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to admit I was back at the casino. “Anyway, it explains everything, Hurley—the worm we found, the lack of diatoms in his bone marrow, and Hannah’s strange behavior, because I’m sure she had to help her mother move the body. That had to have been traumatic for her.”

  “Where has this paper been all this time?”

  “In my purse.”

  Hurley sighs and rolls his eyes. “Great,” he says with heavy sarcasm. “So much for a chain of evidence.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I had no idea what it was until now.”

  “We’ll never be able to use it.”

  “Maybe not as evidence, but we can use the knowledge, can’t we? We can confront Charlotte with what we know, and maybe she’ll admit to everything.”

  “Maybe,” Hurley says, looking deep in thought. “But what about that head injury Donald had? Nothing in this note explains that.”

  “No, but I think I can. We know from the lack of bleeding in the tissue that the injury occurred post-mortem. I think it happened while Charlotte was trying to dispose of the body. Donald was a big guy, and even with Hannah helping, he had to have been a handful because he was deadweight. Literally. My guess is they dropped him.”

  Hurley nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense,” he says. “Let’s run it past Izzy and make sure everything is in keeping with the autopsy evidence. Then I guess we’ll need to pay Charlotte another visit.” He starts to turn away, but I grab his arm and pull him back.

  “Wait, what are you planning to do?”

  “What do you mean? I just told you what I’m going to do.”

  “I mean, what are you going to do to Charlotte? She’s had a pretty rough time of it already, and the fact that we discovered this isn’t going to make her happy. But I don’t want to compound that by arresting her for what she did. Those kids need her, now more than ever.”

  Hurley looks askance at me. “Are you saying you think we should just let her get away with it? She’s committed at least two felonies I can think of, and I’m sure I can come up with more.”

  “I know, but I just hate to see that family torn up any more than it already is. Isn’t there some way we can minimize the aftermath?”

  Hurley stares at me for several long seconds, and then says, “You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack.”

  He lets out an exasperated breath. “I need a drink.”

  “I think you’ve had plenty already,” I say, but he ignores me, flags down the bartender, and orders a beer.

  “You want anything?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. “I’ll try to get hold of Izzy while you do more damage to your liver.”

  I limp my way through the crowd and step outside, where there is less noise interference. I take out my cell and dial Izzy’s number. He answers on the third ring.

  “Hey,” I say, “I think we’ve had a bit of a break regarding the Strommen case.” I tell him about the paper, the contents of the note that was written, and my theory about Donald Strommen’s death.

  “It all makes sense,” Izzy says when I’m done. “Though it’s too bad the note wasn’t recognized and handled as evidence right away. Have you told Hurley yet?”

  “I just did. He’s here with me now.”

  “Where is here?”

  “We’re at the Nowhere bar. But don’t worry, the only one getting snockered is Hurley.”

  “Should I ask?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So what’s Hurley plan to do now?”

  “That’s still a bit up in the air at the moment.”

  “Okay,” he says slowly. “Then I guess just keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” I end the call and head back inside. My ankle is swelling more with each passing minute, and the pain is increasing as well. I need to get Hurley out of here and back home so I can get off my feet. I find him standing where I left him; half of his beer is gone already.

  Someone has put money in the jukebox and loud music is adding to the cacophony of voices, making it hard to hear. I get up close to Hurley’s ear and say, “I just got off the phone with Izzy, and he agrees with our interpretation of things.”

  We do a little head jog that puts Hurley’s lips at my ear. “We can’t just ignore this, Winston,” he says.

  “I know. But why don’t we go home and sleep on it. Then we can regroup in the morning and discuss what to do.”

  Hurley shakes his head, takes a swig of his beer, and then leans into my ear again. “I know you’re not going to give up,” he says. “You’re too damn stubborn.” He punctuates the comment with an attempt at a laugh, but i
t comes out as a belch, instead. “Shit, sorry,” he says. “That’s what happens when you have a gut full of booze.”

  His words, and the boozy smell of his breath, turn on a lightbulb in my head. And in a series of mental flashes, I recall the smell of my barfy seatmate on the plane, and the lingering odor of alcohol when I cleaned up Hurley’s car. My eyes grow huge and I grab Hurley by the shoulders. “That’s it!” I say loudly. “That’s what was bothering me!”

  Hurley looks confused. “My belching?”

  “No, no, not that. The smell of alcohol. Or, rather, the lack thereof.”

  Hurley shakes his head as if he’s trying to rattle something loose.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing him by the arm. “We need to get out of here.”

  We manage to get to the car, despite the fact that neither of us is walking very well. I start the engine to warm us up and try to call Izzy back on my cell. It flips over to voice mail and I leave a message for him to meet us at the office ASAP.

  “Where are we going?” Hurley asks as I pull out of the lot.

  “To my office. I need to take another look at the file on Jack’s autopsy.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you remember me telling you about the guy I was sitting next to on the plane?”

  “Look, I said I was sorry you had to be alone through all of that, but it—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it. It’s not important right now.”

  Hurley gives me a wounded look.

  “What is important is that this guy had a lot to drink. When he started puking into his airsick bag, I could smell the alcohol he’d consumed. It permeated the air. Something about it nudged at my brain, but I couldn’t figure out why at first. The same thing happened when I smelled lingering alcohol fumes in both my car and yours after my . . . indulgence.”

  Hurley’s brow furrows as he tries to follow my logic, but our conversation stops because we’ve arrived at the office.

  Slowly we make our way inside—Hurley because his step is still a bit unsteady and I because my ankle is killing me. I head for Izzy’s office and dig through the files on his desk until I find Jack’s. Opening it, I thumb through the paperwork, searching for what I need. I find it, read it, and then show it to Hurley.