by Grant Mccrea
I guess I can see it now? I said to Russell Graham.
The ADA pushed a printout across the table:
sorry doll i can’t really explain it’s so weird but doll you were right i’ve been unfair to Jules i wish we could have worked it out
i love you both
Eamon
112.
I WENT TO THE OFFICE. The real office. Well. It didn’t seem so real anymore. I took my index cards with me. I closed my office door. I spread them out on the floor. I put into one pile all of those that made sense, in light of everything we’d learned. I put in another pile those that didn’t.
The second pile was empty.
I walked the length of the thirtieth floor. I acknowledged nobody. Lest I be deterred from my intended task. I strode past Cherise without a glance in her direction. I arrived at Warwick’s office door. I did not knock. I walked right in.
He was on the phone. He looked up at me, mouth open. This was just not done. He mumbled something into the phone. Pressed the hold button.
Redman, he said testily, I’m on an important call. Please speak to Cherise. I think I have an opening at three.
Fuck that, Warwick, I said.
His face turned a shade of pink I hadn’t encountered before. His mouth twitched. He was searching for words.
Don’t waste your breath, I said. I quit. Oh, and by the way. Go herniate.
I turned and walked away. I left his door open.
In the background, fading into the history of my former life, I heard Warwick’s whining voice.
Something about burning bridges.
Hah, I said to myself. Some bridges are better burnt.
My last official act was to invite Dorita for lunch. Michel’s, I suggested. I was hoping to see Warwick show up, planning to flatter some overstuffed prospective client. Maybe I could bribe a waiter to piss in his soup.
Dorita arrived. She was wearing a flowing silk thing in a pale peach color.
My, I said. You’ve gone pastel.
A momentary loss of judgment, she said. Don’t worry.
That’s a relief. I was just about to recommend a good therapist. But then I remembered you already have three.
Speaking of therapy, what the hell did you just do?
I quit. I told the fucker off. And please don’t say anything about burning bridges.
Wouldn’t dream of it, she said.
Anyway it’s done. And I’m quite convinced that my next project’s going to get me through it. At least until we set up shop as R. & D., LLP, Ace Detectivists.
Don’t hold your breath. One of us still has a real job.
You have my deepest sympathy.
Speaking of jobs, did you hear about Steiglitz?
No.
He’s selling his clinic. Going to Africa.
Gone safari on us?
No. For good. He’s joined Doctors Without Borders.
My, what a little guilt will do for a man.
I guess you’d know. So, what are you going to do? Dealer at the Taj? Live on tips?
Close, but way better. I’m opening my own room.
You’re opening up your bedroom for public viewing?
Hadn’t thought of that, actually. Maybe I’ll do that too. But no. A poker room. I found this amazing space in Williamsburg.
You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.
I am not.
Isn’t that illegal?
Depends, I said. On who’s watching.
113.
THE CALL FROM LAURA CAME.
Rick, she said in her official tone.
Laura, I replied.
I was calm. I knew what was coming.
The final report’s coming out tomorrow, she said.
Okay.
I wanted to give you a heads-up.
I appreciate that.
It won’t come as a surprise to you.
Nothing would come as a surprise to me. I’m all surprised out.
She paused.
Okay, she said. The bottom line is, involuntary overdose. Self-inflicted.
Right.
I can give you the details.
No. No. I can read it tomorrow.
Okay. But if you change your mind.
No. I won’t. It’s okay.
All right, then.
All right.
I hung up. I sat back. I was suffused with a most confusing calm.
I paid a memorial visit to the Wolf’s Lair. I ordered soda water.
Double? asked Thom.
Sure, I said. Let’s go crazy.
Another double soda water later, Jake came through the door.
We shook hands.
We stood awkwardly. I wondered whether I should call him Jake or Brendan.
Have a seat, my man, I said at last.
We sat side by side at the bar. I felt no imperative to speak. I could have asked him all those questions about Melissa. Filled in some of the remaining blanks. But I didn’t.
Let her rest in peace, I thought. Leave her with her mysteries.
So, he said. Anything new going on?
I told him I’d quit drinking.
He was impressed. Said he might try that too.
I told him about the poker room.
He liked it.
Hey, he said, the World Series starts in two weeks.
Shit, I said. I’d forgotten all about that.
The World Series of Poker. Vegas. Lights. Cameras. Action. Millions in prizes. Side tables full of overstuffed rubes. Babes in bikinis.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I’ll make the reservations, I said.
114.
I WOKE UP BEFORE DORITA. She was on her stomach, sleeping softly. I crept out of bed. I stood and gazed at her. I was not worthy. That such a creature would share my bed. Might share my life. Damn. I apologized to God for all my whining. I was a lucky man. Even if it ended here, I was a lucky man.
I rustled up some eggs and Emmental. I scoured the nether regions of the fridge for half an onion, the odd dried-out mushroom. I pled guilty to bad housekeeping. I turned the detritus into a passable omelet.
I brewed a pot of Jamaican Blue. I went upstairs. Kelly was still asleep. I let her snooze. She deserved it.
Dorita had awoken on her own. She was in the shower. I snuck in. She had her back to me. I kissed the nape of her neck. She leaned back into me. My shirt got wet. I didn’t mind.
Come downstairs, I said. I’ve thrown a little breakfast together.
Mmmm, she said. You sure you don’t want to join me for a while first?
Darn it, I said. Had I only known. But the omelet’s getting cold.
She turned around to face me. A full frontal excess of perfection. My knees went weak.
Have it your way, she said. I’ll keep this for myself.
You cruel, wanton witch, I said. You dare to make me choose between warm omelet and you?
I do. And you can brave the consequences of your choice.
I’m all for free will, I said. But sometimes you just can’t stand on principle.
I threw off my clothes. I eased into the shower stall. I slithered up.
Other stuff transpired. Suffice it to say that by the time we reached the kitchen the omelets had congealed. We popped them in the microwave. They were chewy but retained a hint of flavor. We left some for Kelly, still slumbering innocently in her room. Unaware of the Wagnerian events unfolding in her home.
115.
I CALLED SHEILA.
Come over, she said. I’ll make some time.
When I got there I was momentarily mute. So much had happened. I didn’t know where to start.
Shall we talk about Melissa? Sheila suggested.
I don’t know, I said.
And I didn’t. I didn’t have anything to say.
I can’t get my mind around it, I said.
Yes, said Sheila, indulging me. I’m sorry.
I wish I were.
Rick
. You don’t mean that.
I do. Sort of. I mean yes, I’m sorry. I feel bad. Of course I do. But somehow it doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to feel.
How is it ‘supposed to feel’?
I didn’t have an answer.
Do you feel guilty? she asked finally.
Guilty, sure. I’ll never stop feeling guilty. Guilty for what I did.
What did you do?
Nothing.
Oh, come on, Rick.
Not nothing. But not enough. If I’d done enough, she’d still be alive.
I hesitate to use the word, but isn’t that a little …arrogant?
Arrogant? How so?
You ascribe to yourself the power of life and death. Rather grandiose, don’t you think?
I thought about that.
Ah, I said. Yes. I see.
I told the Steiglitz story, the story of the AA crowd. All the secrets. How helpless I’d felt. Drowning in a tide of revelations.
Oh dear, she said.
Yes, I said. Oh dear.
Silence.
But there’s a silver lining, I said.
I’m so glad to hear that, she said, brightening.
I told her about Dorita.
She’s saved my life, I said. She’s perfect. Radiant. The answer to my prayers.
Sheila looked somber.
I was taken aback. I’d expected her to share my excitement.
Rick, she said.
It suddenly occurred to me that she’d used my name three times. A new record. Jesus, I thought, I must be really messed up.
That’s great, she said. It really is. And I hope it works out for you. But you need to be careful. Manage your expectations. There are no magic bullets in this life. We’ve talked about that.
I felt a pain in my lower back.
Sure, I said. But that was in the context of momentary pleasures. Ecstasies. Escapes.
Are you sure this is any different?
I paused. I shrugged. I thought. I struggled.
No, I said at last. I’m not sure. I can’t be sure. But it sure feels like it.
How did it feel those other times? Those other times that you felt close to bliss. Did it feel different?
No, I said slowly, carefully. Not different. But it went away. As soon as I left the room. It vanished. Or soon. Within a couple of hours. Days, anyway.
The glow faded.
It did.
Well, Rick, this might just be a bigger glow, mightn’t it? Just taking a little longer to fade?
I was silent. Damn, I thought, I’d been like a kid in a candy store.
Like Melissa? she suggested. Like the first few months with Melissa?
I pondered. I struggled. Well, I thought. There it was. Real life.
Candy melts, I said.
She knew exactly what I meant.
And if you eat too much of it? she asked.
You get sick.
Or sick of it.
116.
ON THE WAY HOME I stopped at the Wolf’s Lair.
I needed a drink.
Hey Thom, I said.
Rick! said Thom. Good to see you.
Good to be here, I said. Give me a double.
Soda?
Morangie.
Thom raised his eyebrows. Poured the Scotch.
The brass rail felt cool and right on my hand. The warm mahogany of the bar.
I sat and thought.
I thought about Melissa.
What was I thinking when I thought about you?
I couldn’t remember.
Another double? asked Thom.
Twist my arm, I said.
Anything for a friend, Rick.
Yes, I thought.
Anything for a friend.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Max, Tess and Lana for putting up with my frequent absences while I wrote this thing and for being fabulous and funny. Dr. W. for the inspiration and keeping me (relatively) sane. Arielle, Danny, Thom and Jason for the inspiration. Sam for believing in me. Charlotte for believing in me and introducing me to Sam. And Kendall for being the best editor a fellow could ask for.
And, of no less importance, to everyone I forgot to mention.
And to Dylan, for being so strong, and inspiring so many with his strength. Rest in peace, my son.
VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2006
Copyright © 2006 Grant McCrea
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2006. Originally published in hardcover in Canada by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2006. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Vintage Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited.
www.randomhouse.ca
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McCrea, Grant
Dead money: a Rick Redman mystery / Grant McCrea.
eISBN: 978-0-307-36660-3
I. Title.
PS8625.C74D42 2006a C813’.6 C2006-904696-4
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