Clean

by Tom Lytes

  In stark contrast, stories of valor and bravery came from the mayor back home. Not only did he list her commendations from the police department back in Hoosick, but somebody dug into her history, finding her proficiency at target practice. Peggy’s awards and recognition for shooting were in there too.

  What wasn’t mentioned in the article was Finley’s investigation into her, or any suspicion of Peggy being involved in any wrongdoing. There wasn’t a reference to her past association with her incarcerated boyfriend, or the investigation of her involvement in the old Florida hate crime. She was grateful for that.

  Casualties from the fire seemed surprisingly few, and the injuries were mostly described as minor. Peggy couldn’t figure out whether the paper didn’t have more information than that, or whether they just weren’t bringing attention to the deaths of people from other countries that may have been working on the container ship.

  There were some spectacular pictures of the flaming ship that ran in conjunction with the article. Peggy thought about the young boy from down the street calling the boat a ghost ship from hell.

  “Okay, okay,” Peggy said, talking to herself, trying to calm her worry. “Being dead could be the best thing. Just because you’re surprised, doesn’t mean it’s terrible.”

  She thought about Officer Pincus. He broached the subject with her, but she thought they were a long way off from implementing her fake death. This was her life they were publicly discarding. How could he have made the leap to just go ahead with the idea. She wondered if he’d been pressed by the news outlet with questions about her. Maybe the FBI said to arrest her, and he spun the tale of her death to protect her. There was too much she didn’t understand, and everything felt totally out of control.

  34

  Officer Pincus didn’t sleep much.

  The ship fire was a big deal for the island, and he knew maintaining his standing in the small community required him to be everywhere at once. As a result, he stayed way longer than he needed to with the fire and rescue crews. He spoke with the press and answered his phone all night. He’d been the last to leave the beach, and personally spoke with all the island folk who showed up.

  He couldn’t sleep for another reason as well.

  In the back of his mind he knew that he just might get five million dollars. When the newspaper published the story, and when he saw it in print, he almost believed Peggy died. It looked so official and final. He spent part of the night thinking about how to “undead” Peggy when the time came to do that, which made him think about zombie movies.

  Then he cleared his mind and thought about all the times he pulled over a wealthy resident of the island, only to find them drunk. Or when he drove up to a several million-dollar property on a domestic violence call. He knew people were people, and all of them were wonderful. He truly believed that, even outside of church. What he couldn’t figure out, were the chosen people, who by whatever higher power, came into the possession of so much money. Why did it happen to them? For years, he thought a lot about it, as he lived right and tried to do the best job he could. What he thought he learned from talking to the rich people on the island was that there came a time for them to grab their pile and they went for it. He didn’t spend time thinking about the people who inherited or married into money; none of that could happen for him. No, he studied the stories of the lawsuits, the sales of a business, the auction of art. People planned it, but occasionally they thought fast, and money came to them quickly. And that’s why Officer Pincus couldn’t completely ignore the communication that told him if he killed Peggy he would be paid, big.

  Five. Million. Dollars.

  It might be his one and only chance to have his own money. The concern in his mind every year about how to pay the taxes on their house would be over. His family would no longer worry about being priced off the island. Even without a mortgage or house payment, he still found it hard to afford Sullivan’s Island on his salary.

  He refreshed the online page of his bank to check the balance. Five-million dollars would add a lot to the present balance of nine-hundred-seven dollars and thirteen cents.

  The night of thinking didn’t result in revelations. The early morning, however, brought the Feds and the Coast Guard and the State Police and everyone else who could be involved in the ongoing investigation of the ship fire. His department’s involvement in the ship fire would be to inquire about the cause of the fire and promote whatever official story they came up with to explain it away. He saw it happen before, where events that actually happened were repositioned to fit the agenda politicians wanted people to hear. At the onset of the fire, Officer Pincus heard the huge sound of the fire igniting with accelerant, like a bomb went off or a large amount of gas ignited at one time. It would be interesting to see how that was treated in the official report on the incident.

  When they were in the dune together, in the moment, he thought he might kill Peggy. A step closer, one wrong question, and he’d have done it. But he switched to the current plan; he liked Peggy well enough, despite her Northern origins. Her fake death played out easily, no one really worried about what happened to Peggy. Nobody knew her on the island. And that might have been a positive thought the night before, but this morning it led him to wonder who was behind the five million dollars. But for the sake of his family’s future, he chose not to ask himself that hard question. He didn’t want to flirt with any idea that might derail his ambitious plans by engaging his conscience or some outrageous sense of right and wrong. If he could just let what he started continue he was sure he could handle the fall-out.

  Officer Pincus checked the balance of his account. It still read nine-hundred-seven dollars and thirteen cents.

  He looked out his window as Barbara Pelman drove into his driveway, her golf cart careening out of control, nicking his azalea bush out front.

  “Officer Pincus,” she hollered as she bounded the stairs. Her hair looked as if she’d slept in a tube sock. “I came right over when I heard the dreadful news about the New York police woman. I want you to tell me everything.”

  Officer Pincus closed his eyes, dreading the conversation with Barbara Pelman. Why couldn’t she keep to herself?

  35

  Bobby Touro, awake and alone, had gone out all week like usual, tending to his business. Money worked its way up and down the ranks, and when each person went out onto the street and did their job, Bobby made money. He in turn compensated everyone with the cash they needed to stay happy and loyal. Good weeks, like this one, came from being attentive. He was Bobby Touro, and he enjoyed a reputation, but his heart wasn’t into bringing the usual girls home with him, and he reluctantly admitted to himself that it benefited his businesses. That aside, Peggy monopolized Bobby Touro’s thoughts despite her absence, and Bobby couldn’t stop those daydreams from ruining his social life.

  His driver even commented on it after Bobby found himself awake and ready to go out for the day in the early morning.

  “Bobby, you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah,” Bobby replied. “I might be coming down with a virus or something. My immunity’s gonna be down right now with all the stress from this wacky computer stuff.”

  “I was wondering--” his driver said.

  “What? Out with it.”

  “You know, I was wondering if you were feeling okay because you turned down that girl last night.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one from Poughkeepsie who had her hands all over you. She was your type. That’s all.”

  “She was a low-class slut, and she was wearing a dress three sizes too small for her chest.”

  “Yeah, Bobby,” his driver said. “That’s the one. I was just surprised you didn’t take her home is all.”

  “I didn’t feel like it.”

  “You worried about Lowell, Bobby?”

  “Nah. I like this Hansel guy.”
/>   “Me too, boss.”

  They were in the room behind the dry-cleaning business, having stopped off at Sal’s Diner for an omelet, served with local bear sausage. The bear was shot by Sal’s brother, Romeo, during a legal hunting season for black bear that was running in parts of rural New York. Evidently the bear population was thriving, and it earned them their own three-week period where men with guns could shoot up the woods to make sure they weren’t thriving too much.

  Bobby always got the bear sausage, because there was no question in his mind that eating a bear was manly. After breakfast, they came straight to the dry cleaner that used to be a speakeasy, and Bobby Touro sat in one of the old wooden booths that lined the walls of the back room. There were newspapers from a few of the bigger cities in front of him.

  “Look at page five in that one,” his driver said, pointing.

  “Finley?” Bobby said with anticipation.

  “Oh yeah,” the driver said with a chuckle. “Can’t miss it.”

  A priceless picture of Agent Finley at a cookout, in the middle of a gigantic bite of a hotdog accompanied a story with a leading headline, “Local Agent in Possible Relationship with Murder Suspect.” The article remained sketchy on actual details and allegations, but Finley didn’t dispute that he knew the suspect, spent time with her alone at the Hoosick River, and she was attractive. The mayor commented that he had no comment but managed to keep the conversation going until he got around to praising his local police force.

  There was some background on Finley in the article, about being raised on a goat cheese farm near Lake Champlain in Vermont, and then attending Yale, but not much else. They exposed the possible misdeed and let it hang out there. The FBI considered putting him on administrative leave and promised their own independent investigation.

  “It’s perfect,” Bobby said.

  “Yeah, Finley don’t look too good there, boss. The picture made me laugh, too. Looks goofy, there.”

  Bobby couldn’t help enjoying the moment. “Finley being with Peggy has been pissing me off for what, a year?”

  “Longer, boss,” his driver said.

  Bobby Touro waved him off like the details didn’t matter. “Mr. Perfect doesn’t even treat her well. Why is she with him anyway?”

  The driver shrugged like he didn’t want to be the misunderstood messenger.

  Bobby said, “Well, this will slow him down some. Did they search his place and find the twenty-five grand?”

  “Our guys stuffed it in the freezer like you said, Boss. I’m thinking the FBI didn’t search the place. No mention of bribery or cash payments in the article. Just the Ms. Bourgeaux thing and that hotdog.”

  Bobby looked down at the picture again. “Yeah, would you look at that hotdog? Go by and get the money back. The last thing I want is for Finley to have it to spend on Peggy.”

  The driver nodded. “Shouldn’t be too hard, boss, Finley’s down south with Peggy.”

  Bobby glared enough to make the driver take a step back and busy himself with the keys he kept in his pocket.

  After several seconds, the driver said, “Check out the front page when you get a chance, boss. It says there that Peggy died in the rescue. That’s some fake news, right boss?”

  “Yeah, the paper’s full of it today, huh?”

  Bobby skimmed the Peggy article before glancing at his watch, and as he did at about this time on a daily basis, put in a call to Leonard. It went to voicemail, and he left the usual message about whether his name appeared on the program’s list today. He called Peggy next.

  “Hey, Bobby,” Peggy said when the call connected. “How’s life in New York?”

  “It’s great,” Bobby said. “It’s like a dream, I’m telling you, but it’s missing the princess. I got the castle and all the other stuff, I just need you up here by my side.”

  “A castle?” Peggy asked, laughing as she looked past the burned ship and out into the ocean. “Don’t you mean a strip club and a dry cleaner?”

  “Peg, don’t joke like that,” Bobby said. “Never make fun of the way a man earns a living. Besides, you know I’ve got tons of businesses.”

  “I know, Bobby,” Peggy said. “I say those things to remind me what you are about, more than anything. That way I’m never tempted by your advances.”

  “You made my day, Peg,” Bobby said. “I’ve tempted you. That’s something you can’t undo. Trust me, once you’ve tempted somebody to do something it’s just a matter of time before their brain finds a reason to justify whatever they’ve got going.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Trust me,” Bobby said. “It’s no fucking joke. I’ve got a PhD in people, and I make money by providing services that tempt them. Speaking of which, did you check the paper today?”

  “My death?”

  “Yeah, I see you decided to go through with that.”

  “More like the officer down here went ahead and did it,” Peggy said.

  “Watch him, Peg. That’s a guy you gotta watch.”

  “Yes,” Peggy said, “but I’m thinking he could have been boxed into a corner and had to do it or give me up.”

  “It could’ve gone like that. Or it didn’t, and you gotta watch him closer.”

  Bobby shifted the conversation to Finley. “You see the papers where Finley’s gonna face an investigation? His spending time with Ms. Bourgeaux is getting looked into, formally.”

  Peggy asked, “Bobby, what did you do?”

  “Peg, what makes you think I had anything to do with anything? You want me to babysit your boyfriend, so he doesn’t do stupid stuff that makes him look bad?”

  “Just the other day, I told you about Ms. Bourgeaux and Finley. Did you make something up and tell the papers? That was supposed to be used if Finley turned on me, not just thrown out there to cause trouble for him.”

  Bobby lied, “Peggy you’re making up fairytales. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You think I’m up here making shit up about Finley to the press? Please, I got businesses to run and don’t have time for Finley.”

  “Whatever,” Peggy said, sounding overwhelmed.

  Bobby said in a kinder, less blustery voice, “I’m thinking you could come up here and be with me, Peg, once all this computer stuff gets dealt with properly. And I’m being serious, now. What do you say?”

  “Bobby,” she said. “I’ve only been down here in South Carolina for a few days, and I don’t miss being up there.”

  “You’d miss me, Peg,” Bobby said, “If you’d let yourself get to know me better. And there’s another thing to remember. There may be palm trees and all the beauty of the ocean down there—”

  “There is all that,” Peggy looked outside. “There is definitely all of that.”

  “But don’t be dazzled,” Bobby said. “People are still the same wherever they are. They look different, they act different, they wear different clothes, but at the end of the day, people are people. And I don’t trust that policeman down there one bit. Or Finley. You call me if you have any trouble with them, do you hear? My guys will be in town shortly to head out to Clemsum with you and Finley.”

  “I hear you, Bobby.”

  Peggy disconnected the call and went into the kitchen and joined Finley. She put an arm around his waist and grabbed the box of orange juice from him with her free hand.

  She drank for a few seconds before saying, “Good morning, handsome. Anything going on?”

  “Plenty of calls coming in from the Bureau about me and Ms. Bourgeaux.”

  Peggy put the juice down and looked to the laptop where Finley pointed at an article and his picture.

  “Ha,” Peggy laughed, “looks like you’re enjoying the hotdog. What’s up with the article?”

  “Nothing much, other than responding to the calls. My superiors know me. They’re used to agent
s getting targeted with smear campaigns. Doesn’t mean they’re happy about it, but I’m fine. They’re going to find out who planted the story, eventually.”

  Peggy nodded.

  “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you? I know you were angry.”

  Peggy knew he had to ask. She said, truthfully, “I’d never call a newspaper like that.”

  Finley looked willing to drop the subject.

  She said, “Technically, I died in the fire last night, rescuing people.”

  Finley frowned and looked at the article Peggy was showing him about her demise.

  After reading for a minute, he asked, “So, you decided to do it?”

  “More like Officer Pincus decided for me,” Peggy said as she took another sip of orange juice. “Officer Pincus thought it might even stop Clean from singling me out.”

  She didn’t mention that it would also keep the Feds from harassing her.

  “Are you telling me that Officer Pincus is an expert in computer programming now?” Finley asked with a wry smile.

  “It might help to be dead.” Peggy shrugged.

  Finley nodded and closed out the article with the picture of him wolfing a hotdog.

  Nearby, Vortmit sat at his computer, barely looking at the view, which he reluctantly admitted did less to “wow” him every day. What did it say about humans that one’s mind could become accustomed, numbed really, to such beauty? Maybe it stemmed solely from the compelling reading on his laptop. He read about Peggy’s demise while watching her drink coffee. He also read the article about Finley and Ms. Bourgeaux. Vortmit laughed out loud thinking about the print spent on these non-stories.

  In contrast, Clean’s busy day barely received honorable mention in the news. A plane crash over the Shenandoah Valley, a construction collapse in Cleveland, a gas main explosion in Pensacola, Tallahassee, and Atlanta, and several robberies gone bad. Those were the biggest stories, but there were far more personal tragedies. The ones that religious leaders explain to their congregations by insisting God has a plan. If they only knew.