Dead Money

by Grant Mccrea

  Sammy and Joey were at the bar when I came in.

  Sammy and Joey, I thought. They could start a vaudeville act.

  Hey Sammy, I said instead. Good to see you.

  Sure, he said. Rick, this is Joey.

  Pleased to meet you, Joey, I said, extending a hand.

  The same I’m sure, said Joey, with a heavy dose of Brooklyn irony. His hand enveloped mine. I admired the pinky ring, the heavy gold bracelet.

  I hear you know something about these twins, I said. Ramon and Raul FitzGibbon.

  Sure. I know some stuff.

  So what you got?

  I don’t know a whole lot direct. But I heard stuff. They got some rich daddy. Brought them over from the slums, Mexico City or somewhere, adopted them. They got some classy spread near the Park that Daddy bought them. Some penthouse thing with a huge deck on the roof. Private elevator. Servants. The works. Right next to the Museum.

  They do anything for a living?

  Joey snorted.

  They try, he said. They’re party boys. But Daddy keeps pushing them. Get a job. Do something. Pisses him off. He came from nowhere. Worked his way up. Thinks they should too. He’s a controlling son of a bitch.

  Never would have guessed, I said. So what do they do?

  They think they’re some kind of designers now.

  They ever do any real work? I asked.

  One of them set up shop for a while as some kind of investment guy, I heard. Thought he could be a Wall Street type. A smooth operator. Got some old farts to pony up some cash. Got creamed. Lost all the old ladies’ dough. Daddy bailed him out before the lawsuits got started.

  Was that Ramon or Raul?

  I don’t know. Probably Raul. Ramon’s too stupid to fake it.

  What do you know about Ramon?

  Ramon I know from around. Got a vicious gun habit. He collects them. Lugers from World War II. M1s. Uzis. Whatever. Worth a shit-pile, the collection. Thinks he’s some kind of a cowboy. Took some survival course down in South Carolina somewhere, off in the hills. Thinks he’s a tough guy now. Started up some security outfit. Far as I know, Daddy’s his only client, though. Everybody else knows he’s too stupid to spit and shit at the same time.

  So, FitzGibbon hadn’t made it up. He really was Security.

  It seemed like there was always just enough truth going around to make me doubt my doubts.

  54.

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE OFFICE I started a set of four-by-six file cards. On each one I meticulously wrote one and only one piece of information. I cataloged them by verifiability. One pile of substantiated facts – FitzGibbon had adopted Mexican twins. One for facts for which there was some evidence – there were some trusts, exact terms and consequences to be verified. A pile of hearsay only – Ramon’s gun collection. A pile of suppositions contradicted by other evidence – life made sense. A stack of wild speculations – anything made sense. I put a different-colored sticker on each card, depending on the category. The stickers were removable, so something could easily be shifted from one category to another.

  It took me hours. I felt good. I hadn’t been so organized in years. I usually delegated this kind of work. Relied on my guys to tell me what was important. But this was different. Everything was slippery. Evanescent. Changeable. I had to be on top of it all. And anyway, I couldn’t trust anybody with it. I thought about Warwick’s reaction if he knew I’d listed his major client, and the firm’s, as a potential suspect in a murder case.

  When I’d assembled the cards I tacked them on the wall in descending order of certitude. I stood back. Gazed at my creation.

  Didn’t tell me a thing.

  I needed to clear my head.

  I logged on to the poker site.

  I rarely played poker in the office. Warwick had his tentacles everywhere. He’d find out. Give me shit. But I was starting not to care. I’d take the chance.

  I played aggressive but selective. I got into the zone. I felt the power. Life was good. There was a future. I went to a high no-limit table. I put it all on a pair of Sixes.

  Doyle Brunson, twice world champion, believes in ESP. Now, I don’t believe in ESP, really. But then, there have been times. There have been times when I just knew. I just knew, with the certainty that foments revolution, that the next card out was going to be a Six. Make my trips. Three Sixes. Take their money.

  It happened. Two thousand bucks in a nanosecond.

  Yes, life was good.

  I logged off. Sat back. It took wisdom, I told myself, to step away. Take your wad. Sit back. Enjoy it. Play later. This went against the sages’ advice. When you quit or when you stayed made no difference, they said. Take the long-term view. It’s a lifetime gig, my man. The next hand has as much potential as the last. No more, no less. It’s like flipping coins. A hundred heads come up, two, three, five hundred. What are the odds of heads coming up again? Fifty-fifty. Just like always.

  I didn’t believe it.

  I understood it. I could not refute it. I just didn’t believe it.

  Dorita stuck her head in the door.

  What’s this? she asked.

  I’m wallowing in poker madness.

  No, this.

  She pointed to the cards on the wall.

  I’m organizing the Jules data.

  She walked over to the wall. She looked over my masterpiece. She stood back. She lit a cigarette.

  There’s a rule about smoking in the office, I said.

  Right, she said, tapping some ashes onto the carpet.

  Computers are great, she continued. But sometimes file cards are better.

  The screen is bigger, I said.

  You can see it all at once.

  Right.

  Although.

  Although?

  It still doesn’t speak to me.

  Nor me, I said. Except in a whisper.

  There’s a whisper?

  There is. Keep it up, it says. Keep adding pieces. And if you’re a very good boy, I’ll tell you something. Something good. Something satisfying.

  Wow. That’s one hell of a whisper.

  I know. I think I’ll keep it on the payroll.

  55.

  THE PHONE RANG. I picked it up.

  Redman, I announced with authority.

  I was in control. I was ready for battle.

  Daddy! Why in Jesus’ name didn’t you wake me up!

  I’m sorry, love, I said. I thought maybe you deserved a day off.

  Oh God, she said. Oh Daddy. Come home. Come home now.

  What’s the matter, precious?

  Never mind, Daddy. Just get the hell home, okay?

  56.

  WHEN I GOT THERE it was clear that it was bad. Ambulance. Two squad cars. Flashing lights. Serious faces. A large square cop confronted me, jaw set. He needed a shave.

  Can I help you, sir? he asked, with an unhelpful air.

  This is my house, I said. What’s going on? Is somebody hurt?

  His look relaxed to one of pity and concern.

  I’m afraid there’s been an incident, sir, he said.

  Incident? What the hell did that mean? My first thought was of Kelly. Was she all right? But she had called me. She hadn’t sounded hurt. Just frightened.

  Strange that the obvious thought did not strike me first. That something had happened to Melissa. I can’t explain it, even now.

  The square-faced cop escorted me into my own living room. The room was filled with people. People in white, people in blue. People snapping cameras. People taking notes. And there, in the middle of it all, on the couch, Melissa. The same pose as that morning.

  Oh God, she’d been gone the whole time. Or going, which was worse.

  I’d blithely walked on by, slammed the door, lost in anger and embarrassment. While she lay dying. Right then. Right there. And I had known. Somehow, I had known. God, I had known. And I’d done nothing.

  A stabbing pain started in my stomach, shot through my spine, into my teeth and jaw. A disabling
pain. I fell to my knees. Nothing made sense. I knew the pain wasn’t physical. It was the pain of loss. Blame. Confusion. Thoughts and fears rampant in my head.

  I could feel the people around me, shifting uncomfortably. I had trouble breathing. The pain was in my lungs, my throat. I gasped the words: Melissa. What did you do?

  A woman kneeled, put her arm around me. I felt her body against mine, soft beneath the lab coat. It felt good. Real. Corporeal. But not enough. Nothing would be enough. My breathing slowed. The pain began to ebb. But not completely.

  I knew that it was there to stay.

  The guilt made way for anger. What did you do? What did you do to me? What did you do to Kelly? My God, Kelly! Where was she? I stood up. Where’s my daughter? Before the words were formed I saw her, head in hands, in the armchair across the room. I went to her, leaned over, kissed her forehead. She looked up. Her eyes were red. Her face was swollen, yellow.

  The pain came back in force.

  To see my angel child in such a state.

  57.

  THEY TOOK MELISSA AWAY. They took their pictures first. Put bits of things in plastic bags. Marked them up with black indelible pens. Asked me question after question. I answered. I was polite. But I didn’t, don’t, remember one thing I was asked. One thing I said. I was on automatic pilot. I was busy building walls. The only thing I wanted was my Kelly in my arms. They kept taking her away from me. To ask her questions too.

  I just wanted them all to leave.

  When they finally did, I put my arms around Kelly. We were both too tired and numb to say a thing. I fell into a sleep, as deep and dark as black on black. I did not dream. I did not think.

  That’s what nirvana’s like, I think the Buddhists say.

  I never wanted it to end.

  But of course it did. Light came through the curtains. I woke up. My stomach hurt. Another day to face. I had no choice. I had to face it. For my angel child, if nothing else.

  And there was precious little else.

  They’d taken Melissa to the morgue. I supposed normal people called their friendly neighborhood funeral director. Or something. Somebody.

  I didn’t.

  Melissa had no family, no friends to call.

  And anyway I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

  I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  I slept.

  I woke.

  Damn it. They were going to cut Melissa up. Cut her into little pieces. Recite her bits and pieces into a handheld tape recorder. Collect them, bag them, test them. Defile them. Put them all back into a pile. Sew it back inside of her.

  I couldn’t stand the thought of it.

  I called the coroner’s office. I asked for Dr. Nathaniel Jones. The Chief Medical Examiner. I knew him only well enough to nod at in the hallway. I don’t know what I thought I was going to accomplish, talking to him. I wasn’t thinking much, really. Action just seemed better than sitting and thinking. Brooding. Imagining. Any action. Action to push the darkness away, if only for a little while. To give me time. To give me time to wash it all away. To dull the edges.

  Dr. Jones was not a friendly man. He was a tall ungainly thing with a peculiar crown of white hair that gave him a Caesarean air. He never smiled. Never reacted to anything, beyond a small twitching at the corner of his mouth, a slight frown at the corners of his eyes. I could picture him sitting imperially at his desk as he took my call.

  Once he was on the line, I had no idea what to say.

  I’m Richard Redman, I said.

  Hello, Mr. Redman, said Dr. Jones.

  My wife died yesterday.

  Ah, yes. I’m so sorry for your loss, said Dr. Jones, without a hint of conviction.

  I guessed he said that a lot, in his business. It got to be a chore. A bore.

  I paused.

  He cleared his throat.

  Have you begun an autopsy? I asked.

  Not yet.

  Good.

  Good?

  Because I don’t want one.

  Pardon me?

  I don’t want one.

  I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand what you’re saying.

  I don’t want an autopsy.

  There was a pause. Dr. Jones cleared his throat again.

  Mr. Redman, he said, I have the utmost respect for your feelings. But I’m afraid that this is not an issue that it is in my power to decide. Nor is it yours. This is a matter for the police. The District Attorney.

  A deep-seated anger arose in me. The numbly bureaucratic mind at work again. It was everywhere.

  Listen, Dr. Jones, I said. She didn’t believe in it. She didn’t believe in funerals either. Or services. She just wanted to be cremated. Right away. Cast to the winds.

  Right away? he asked. Is this a request she put in writing?

  No. She’s my wife. She was my wife. I know what her feelings were.

  Well, Mr. Redman, I understand. I understand. I’ll have someone call you.

  The simmer turned to a boil.

  Someone call me? Aren’t you the one in charge of the bodies down there? Who the hell are you going to have call me?

  I’ll have someone call you, Mr. Redman. Good day.

  Click.

  I sat back. I got up. I paced back and forth. I felt like a jerk. Why had I done that? I hadn’t the slightest idea what Melissa’s beliefs were about funeral arrangements. It was me. I was trying to burn it away. Purge the guilt. The deadening sorrow. The responsibility. Jesus. Wasn’t there more I could have done for her? All along the way? Yes. Of course there was. Every step of the way. Seen it coming earlier. Battled it more. Loved her more. Mostly that. Got out of my goddamn own mind a little more.

  I went into the kitchen. I got some ice. I took the talisman from its sacred niche. What the hell. Might as well put it to good use. I poured myself a tumblerful. I drank it down.

  It was eight-thirty in the morning.

  The phone rang. It was a Detective Harwood. I didn’t know him. He wanted to come over for a chat. Sure, I said. Come on over.

  I hung up the phone. Oh Christ, I thought. What have I done? They think I’m trying to dispose of the evidence. But how could they? Who in their right mind would be so stupid as to call up the coroner’s office to ask them to assist in disposing of the body? I laughed a small dry laugh. Me, I guess. I could see their thinking. A man consumed with grief can do some irrational things. Or a man consumed with guilt.

  Harwood was an older guy. Short. Balding. Rumpled. A guy who’d been around. He wasn’t the bullying type. More the sardonic type. He’d seen it all. He wasn’t taking any shit. He asked a lot of questions. I answered them. The theme was pretty basic.

  Where was I that night?

  In the bar. Then home. In the house with the deceased.

  Had I had anything to drink?

  Lots.

  Drugs?

  No.

  Any arguments recently?

  No. We hardly talked.

  Really?

  Yes. She was a recovering alcoholic. And pills. Whatever. She didn’t have much to say these days.

  He perked up at that.

  Who was the last person to see her alive?

  Me, probably.

  Interesting, I could hear him think. Very interesting.

  He warmed up as we went on, though not a lot. He can see I’m not the type, I let myself think. Maybe I’m acting like you’re supposed to act. Whatever that is.

  But he never lost his wary, cynical air.

  The questions went on too long. He asked the same question one too many times. I lost my temper, just a bit.

  Listen, I said, I know you’ve got a job to do. But it’s an overdose. It’s been coming for years. Anybody who knew her can tell you that. Talk to her doctor. She wanted to die. She couldn’t handle living. It was just too much for her. I’m not saying I can tell you why. I don’t know why. And I should have known. I should have found out. But I didn’t. And now she’s gone. It’s bad enou
gh. Can you just leave me alone now? Please?

  Mr. Redman. I understand that you’re upset, he said calmly. But we have to follow procedures. We have to establish the cause in the proper way.

  Establish the cause? Come on.

  You never know, Mr. Redman. Death is a funny thing.

  A laugh a minute, I said with a sneer.

  He looked hard at me. I backtracked.

  I’m sorry, I said. I’m a little emotional.

  I could feel his distrust fill the room. Like carbon monoxide. Silent. Odorless. Deadly.

  I could understand it. I knew that whatever I’d been feeling inside, however normal I’d been acting, no grief, no weakness, beyond that brief flash of anger, had made an appearance. I should have been reacting more, I supposed. Hysterical. Crying. Defying the Gods.

  But my stony demeanor meant nothing. It’s how I deal with adversity.

  I knew that. But he didn’t.

  I wasn’t about to tell him, either. You don’t say that kind of thing to a guy.

  My throat constricted. I had to hold inside the twelve emotions that competed for attention.

  Harwood asked a few more questions. Wrapped it up. Gave me one last searching look. Left.

  Finally.

  I poured myself another Scotch.

  I drained it down.

  It felt awfully good.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning.

  I began to understand Melissa a little better.

  58.

  I SLEPT A LOT. Sunday morning came. I found myself staring blankly at the toaster. I didn’t know how I’d gotten to the kitchen.

  There was no way I was going to get through this without Sheila.

  I made the phone call. For the first time, I paid attention to the triage of numbers. I called the red alert one. A service answered. The voice was flat. Uninterested in my problems. We’ll pass the message to the doctor, it said.

  I got lucky. Sheila called me back within the hour. I told her I had an emergency. Had to see her. No, I didn’t want to tell her over the phone.

  I guess she heard it in my voice. She asked me to give her half an hour. Meet her at her office.