by Grant Mccrea
But she just ignored me. I was nothing to her.
That was the best I could have hoped for.
Jake was a different problem. He was his backslapping self. But I couldn’t see him as I had before. My guileless and charming oddball friend. Brother in maladjustment. Now I knew that his adjustment problems made mine look like a guy with a stutter looks to Steven Hawking. His mood swings made sense now. His faraway stare. Drinking himself incoherent. Dark allusions to secrets unrevealed.
He moved into aggressive mode. Aggressive and with an arrogance I hadn’t seen before. Not stupid aggressive. Good aggressive. He jammed a lot of pots. He stared people down. He kept up a constant chatter. I’ve got the nuts! he kept exclaiming, hand after hand, laughing hyena-like and gathering in another pot as the tight and cautious of us folded mediocre hands. When he was challenged he had the cards. We knew that all that meant was that we’d chosen the wrong hand to call him on. But his rush lasted through the night. He ended up with a pile of chips that made ours look like amateur night at the bingo parlor.
After one particularly subtle move that garnered him a major pot at my expense, I leaned over, put him in a playful headlock and said, Do that again and I’ll have to start playing seriously, my man.
He laughed. He punched me in the side. I twisted him sideways. We fell over and rolled on the floor. The gang gathered round, egging us on. A play fight. Butch threw himself on top of the pile. Mike poured a glass of Scotch on our heads. We spluttered up, cooled down.
When the game was over and we were waiting for the elevator, Jake turned to me.
Hey Rick, he said with childish glee, did I kick some ass tonight, or what?
You kicked some ass, Jake, I said. You kicked my ass. You kicked everybody’s ass.
I did, he said, I did.
He had that faraway look again.
I fingered in my pocket a small envelope.
86.
I CALLED UP LAURA. It seemed to me she owed me one.
Her office was drab and devoid of personality. You might expect someone working in a morgue to try to jazz the place up a bit. But no. The desk was stainless steel. Just like the slabs. I suppose a little color might only have made the place worse. The contrast too extreme. But she didn’t have so much as a picture of the kids on her desk.
Laura, I said, I need a favor.
Just ask, she said, and it’s yours.
Well, it’s a really, really big favor.
She tilted her head quizzically.
All right, Rick, spit it out. What do you need?
I need a private DNA lab.
I can refer you to several. Some of them are actually quite good.
No, I can’t use commercial labs.
Why not?
Let’s just say there are certain things they won’t be able to do.
Laura shook her head.
I don’t know, Rick. I think I see where you’re heading. But that’s a lot to ask.
I know. I told you that up front. It’s a really, really big favor. But it’s really, really important to me.
She looked me in the eye. This has something to do with Melissa, Rick?
Maybe.
Can you be a little more vague?
I’d like to tell you more. I really would. But I think it’s better if I don’t.
Rick. This is a little weird. I mean, I think I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be up to something illegal …
That much I can assure you, I laughed. It’s just that …well. I need this to be private. It’s very important to me.
You’re making it awfully hard for me to say no.
Good. Then it’s working.
All right, she said, pulling over a pad of paper. I reserve the right to change my mind. But let’s do this. If you have a sample you want tested, leave it in an envelope in my home mailbox. Here’s the address. Don’t ring the bell. Just drop it in the box. It’s locked. Write any instructions on the inside of the envelope. Don’t put it on a separate piece of paper. Just write it under the flap before you seal it.
My, you’ve got a little of the spy in you, I said.
She gave me a wry smile.
And Rick? she said.
Yes?
If this turns out to be something that’s important to a case I know about … she paused to give me a knowing look …I can’t keep it to myself.
Okay Laura. I understand. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?
Okay, she said, with a dubious shake of her head.
On the way home I had the car make a detour. I took the small envelope out of my pocket. I wrote some simple instructions on the underside of the flap. I sealed it, and dropped it into Laura’s mailbox.
87.
BY THE TIME I GOT HOME I felt as deflated as a wineskin in the desert. I thought of going to the Wolf’s Lair, to drink some of the emptiness away. I quickly thought better of it. Apart from all the self-defeating irony of the idea, it would send a message to Kelly that might as well be: Why don’t we both kill ourselves right here right now? Which, come to think of it, wasn’t a bad question. But not one that I wanted to inflict on my only and most precious progeny.
But I had to do something.
So I called Dorita.
Do you want to come over? I asked.
Over? To your house?
The very one, I said.
There was a long pause.
I thought of turning it into a jest. But it wasn’t. And I wanted her to know that it wasn’t.
Do you really think that’s the right thing to do? she asked at last.
I didn’t care if it was right. I just needed something. Some connection to something other than my morbid thoughts. I needed it or I was going to…I didn’t know what. But it was going to be messy.
Yes, I said. It’s the right thing to do.
What about Kelly?
What about Kelly? I echoed.
Do you think she’ll be all right with that?
I don’t see why not.
Ricky, Ricky. Sometimes you can be so dense. The girl’s mother just died. You want to introduce a strange woman to the house? So soon?
You’re not a strange woman. Wait. I take that back. You’re a very strange woman. But she’s met you before. It won’t be that much of a shock.
I think you need to take this a little more seriously, Rick.
I really don’t think she’ll mind. She’s not like that.
You’d better do better than think. You’d better know for sure.
I’ll ask her, I said. Call you back in a few.
I hung up before she could protest.
Kelly! I called downstairs.
Yes, Dadster.
Come up here.
Okay, she said reluctantly.
It took a while, but eventually she ascended from her lair.
She looked depressed. Of course she was depressed. Stage whatever of the grieving process. Which seemed to involve never leaving the basement.
And she needed me less and less, it seemed. Another process. The growing-up one. Melissa’s death just seemed to have accelerated it a bit. Not a reversible process, I knew. Nor should it be. It was normal.
Which didn’t make it any less distressing.
Are you okay? I asked.
Sure, Dadster, she said, unconvincingly.
I’d like to invite my friend Dorita over.
Dorita? she asked with a cock of the head.
My friend from work. You met her in the office a couple of times. Tall. Loud.
Oh. Her. Yes.
Okay with you? I asked, as casually as I could manage.
Dadster, you gotta do what you gotta do.
She said it with enough of a smile to convince me that it really was okay. At least, enough for me to convince myself that it was.
I called Dorita back.
Come on over, I said.
You’re sure?
I’m sure.
Absolutely sure?
Just get over here.
Okay. Be there in a while.
I breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
In the hour and a half it took Dorita to arrive I managed to focus long enough to run to the store, pick up some stuff, prepare a meal. I grilled some prawns, soaked first in star fruit, ginger, cognac and some other things I’d never reveal to even the most assiduous interrogator. I cooked some fragrant jasmine rice to perfection. I called up Francis, my favorite local wine merchant. He found a bottle of Château Beaucaillou 1990 hiding in a back corner of the cellar. Send it over, I said. I set an elegant table, yet discreet. No candlelight. Nothing obvious. Just nice. Pretty. Ordered.
The bell rang. Kelly was closer to the door, and turned to it with a mischievous smile.
I cringed.
Kelly opened the door.
Hi, said Dorita. You must be the angel child I’ve heard so much about.
Daddy! reproached Kelly.
I’ve just been reading Philip Pullman’s latest, Dorita went on without a pause. I bet you’ll love it. I’ve brought it with me, she said, with a questioning lilt at the end of the phrase, a little ‘Is this okay, am I allowed?’
I love Philip Pullman, Kelly said.
Oh, I hope you haven’t read this yet. It just came out, Dorita said, pulling the book from her bag.
No, no, said Kelly. Thank you. Thank you.
I swear I saw a little blush. On both of them.
Another new side of Dorita.
This was going to take some getting used to.
We sat for dinner. Kelly and Dorita did most of the talking. There were some awkward silences. But not too many. I poured the Beaucaillou. I allowed Kelly half a glass. She was almost seventeen, after all. I’d started hanging at the local tavern at thirteen, I reminded myself.
Hey, Kelly? I said at one point.
Yo, Dadster.
Remember when you were eight or nine, and we arm-wrestled, and I told you how amazingly strong you were?
Sure, Dadster.
That’s what made you want to do wrestling, wasn’t it?
She looked me in the eye. She cocked her head. She smiled.
Dadster? she said.
Yes, angel child?
You’re seriously deluded.
Dorita left after dinner. Her departure was chaste. Free of innuendo. It felt good. I had deflected the demons til bedtime, at least.
88.
WHEN I WOKE, late the next morning, Kelly had already left for school. I was a little bereft. But I knew that it was a good thing.
My cell phone rang. I looked at the screen. Laura.
I have some results, she said.
I’ll be there in twenty, I said.
I grabbed a cab. It had a funky smell.
Despite my haste, she wasn’t there when I arrived. Called out on an emergency, they told me.
Emergency? All her patients were dead. Couldn’t they wait?
I was anxious. I wanted to know. I couldn’t sit still. I went out back. I had a smoke. I had three.
The back door opened. Laura stuck her head out.
Keep that up and you’ll be my next patient, she said, eyeing the cigarette.
I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have exploring my entrails, I said. You got something for me?
You won’t necessarily like it.
Well? I said, a touch impatiently.
It’s ambiguous.
Shit.
Sorry.
What do you mean, ambiguous?
We got a match. But it wasn’t with the semen.
What then?
A hair.
What hair?
A hair from the sofa.
Shit. That doesn’t mean anything. He’s been there. He’s been on that couch.
Which makes it even more ambiguous.
You can’t date a hair.
Not unless you’re really, really weird.
I paused. I wasn’t used to jokes from Laura. I tried to keep a straight face. But I couldn’t. The joke was just too goddamn stupid. I snorted. I guffawed. She smiled.
Well, I said, can you?
Within a day or two? No.
Damn.
Sorry.
Don’t be sorry.
Listen, Rick, there’s something else.
What?
I don’t want to tell you now. I want to run a couple more things. To make sure.
Laura, come on. You can’t do this to me.
Nothing serious, Rick. Just something a little strange.
Laura.
Seriously, Rick. These things come out funny all the time. Contamination and things. I just need to double-check. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Laura, you’re killing me here.
Rick, I went out on a limb for you. You can wait a day.
She had a point.
89.
I WENT TO STARBUCKS. I fired up the laptop. Dorita had sent me copies of the newspaper articles about Suspect Number One in the mysterious death of …my wife. It still didn’t sound right. ‘Death of my wife.’ It couldn’t be real. I’d found myself doing double takes every time a dark-haired woman walked by. Could that be her? May I please wake up?
The pictures were blurry, inconclusive. A high school yearbook photo. The perp getting into a car, holding his hands up over his face. Certainly a resemblance. But not enough to be sure it was Jake. I realized that I hadn’t asked Dorita how she knew that this was him.
I called her up. I told her about Laura’s results.
Hm, she said. Ambiguous.
Exactly Laura’s word, I said. Anyway, how the hell did you track him down?
I hate to reveal my secrets.
Sure. Save it for the ADA. How’d you find him?
The Guild.
The Actors’ Guild?
Exactly. They’ve got a record of stage names.
Isn’t that confidential information?
Sure, Ricky, it’s private, she laughed. As soon as I heard that, I gave up.
Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to impugn your investigative skills.
I accept your apology. Listen. I got the name. I did a search. These articles turned up. The ages matched. He’s a mystery guy. Here’s a mystery. It all fits. Could I be wrong? I could. But I seriously doubt it.
It would be quite a coincidence, I agreed. But I’d rather have something more concrete.
We could fly to Podunk, interview the locals. Go the whole nine yards. Or, we could just ask him.
Sure. And he’ll say, ‘Yeah, sure, I’m a sister-fucker. And I’m dying to expiate my guilt.’
Expiate. Nice. Are you Catholic?
No, but I’ve considered it. Answer the question.
There wasn’t any question. But I’m telling you, if he’s Brendan, we’ll know. We’ll know in two minutes. He’s a drunk. At least, you told me he was. We’ll get him liquored up.
I love you. ‘Liquored up.’ Who else would use that phrase?
After we get him liquored up, we spring it on him. He won’t see it coming. He has no reason to think anything’s cooking. We’ll see it on his face. Instantly. Then, he spills it. Or he doesn’t. If he doesn’t, we fly to Podunk, get the goods. He does, we save the trip.
Podunk has an airport?
I can always count on you to keep your eye on the ball.
Thanks. It’s one of my better qualities.
Set it up.
All right. I’ll set it up. But tell me, darling. How is it that you got to be so goddamn smart?
Sex. Lots and lots of sex. It stimulates the brain.
You have no idea how depressing that is.
Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.
90.
I KNEW JAKE WOULD BE at the Wolf’s Lair that night. It seemed like he’d moved in.
We talked some poker talk for the first few drinks. I complimented his play. He complimented mine. We talked about the others in the crew. Mike bluffed too much. You’d lose a few to him. You’d have to fold. You di
dn’t have the cards. But you knew if you were patient you’d catch him. You’d have a big hand. You’d re-raise. He’d re-re-raise. You’d get into a bidding war. He’d never back down. It was an ego thing. You’d win more in that hand than he could make all night on your folds. Riverstreet was cagey. You had to watch him close. He had a tell or two. A twitch in his neck when he had the goods. A very slight tremor in his left hand when he didn’t. You paid attention, you could make him pay. Andrea and Butch were imperturbable. You didn’t look to them for profits.
This went on for an hour or two. We discussed strategy. We talked about personalities. We talked about what made a good game. We could find a better one, we agreed. Some rich guys, eager to give their money away. We could be a team. Play them like a yo-yo. They wouldn’t know what side was up or down.
Drunken bravado. There was nothing like it to bond a guy to you.
Dorita got there, almost too late. We’d got so drunk I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to play my role.
I didn’t need to worry. She was in her element. She didn’t need me. I’d set him up. She could take it from there.
She put her arm around me, asked me to introduce her to my handsome friend. She posed. She postured. She seduced him with salacious conversation.
What is it that makes a lover? she asked. Not just a guy that can convince you in the bar that he’s cool? A guy that can convince you later that you can’t live without his touch?
Dorita put her hand on Jake’s.
He didn’t have a chance. A man with an ounce of ego couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
He put his hand over hers. She smiled. He tried to smolder. He did a fairly decent job of it.
The fish was hooked.
We talked, we laughed. We drank. We drank some more.
Let’s all go to your place, Dorita said to me.
I don’t know, I said. I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that.