by C I Dennis
“Yeah.”
“It hurts people at first, but they come around.”
“OK. I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
“Go to bed,” I said.
“Is the new Mac working OK?”
“Yeah, perfect,” I said. “I’ll try to keep this one from going swimming.”
*
I was back on the laptop, trying to dial in the audio from the bugs at the Johannsens’ when Barbara appeared out of the spa room and came into the living area. She sat next to me on the leather couch. She wore a plush white terry cloth hotel robe and smelled of scented bath oil and warm skin.
“I made an ass out of myself, didn’t I?”
“You feel better after a bath?”
“Yes,” she said. “And I apologize. I can come on a little strong. I don’t drink that much, usually.”
“I tend to bring out the closet alcoholic in people,” I said, and we laughed. She was forgiven.
I got the audio going and we listened. It wasn’t a recording, it was in real time, happening now; the bug can do that, too. It was D.B. and Le, in their bedroom. They were talking in lowered voices.
I twisted it bad playing golf. His voice.
How’d you play?
Total fuck up. It happens.
You lose money?
I broke even. I was up fourteen grand and they stiffed me. One of the guys couldn’t afford to lose that much, and he threatened to call the cops. It was ugly.
Sorry, honey. That’s not fair.
Le, can you walk on my back if I lie on the floor? I’m stiff as hell.
There was a rustling sound, and it got quiet except for D.B.’s moaning and his occasional instruction to Le about where to walk on his back. Barbara was leaning over me, looking at the display on the computer. It showed a timeline, and little sound waves that moved up and down with the voices. She whispered in my ear. “Can they hear us?”
“No, it only works one way.”
I caught a glimpse of her breasts down the partially-opened bathrobe. They were not fake. They had the feminine slope of a woman her age, a woman who took care of herself. I’ll never understand the silicone boob-job thing: they look like twin ice cream scoops. Barbara’s looked perfect. The devil on my right shoulder was telling me to just reach in there and go for it, but the angel on the other shoulder was ready to bitch slap me if I did.
“Ooh-la-la,” Barbara, said, over D.B.’s moaning. Another voice had joined in, Le’s, and the moaning grew louder. Barbara looked at me with a grin. “So this is what you do for a living?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Pervert.”
The moaning from the computer turned into groaning, then some rhythmic slapping, and they weren’t making hamburger patties. I closed the laptop.
“Show’s over. I have to get to bed,” I said, and I walked into my bedroom and closed the door.
*
I needed to catch up on sleep from the last two nights, but nothing that I did helped me to drift off. I thought about getting up and using the spa, and decided not to—that might invite trouble. I was trapped in the incredibly plush king-size bed, just me, about twenty-seven pillows, and my insomnia. I thought about Barbara. And then I thought about Glory. And then I thought about Barbara.
She opened the door and stood silhouetted from behind. She wore something that she must have picked up while shopping. I couldn’t tell what color it was, but the light passed through the sheer fabric and it didn’t leave anything to the imagination.
“I can’t sleep,” she said. She crossed the room and sat on the other side of my bed. She was a safe distance away; the bed was so wide it was like I was in Florida and she was in Nebraska.
“I can’t either.”
“Vince, can I ask you something?”
I prepared myself. “OK.”
“What happened to your wife?”
That was not the question I expected. Now I really wasn’t going to get any sleep. I sat up in the bed and faced her.
“You mean did I really shoot her?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is what really happened?”
“I did shoot her. That’s what they said. I don’t remember much of it.”
“Start from the beginning.”
“I was out drinking with a friend. I didn’t think I was drinking that much, but it really hit me. I barely made it home; I was probably way over the limit. I went right to my bed, and assumed Glory was already in her bedroom. Something woke me up, and I remember being at the top of the stairs, and then I passed out. I was all banged up; I must have slid down the staircase.”
Barbara moved closer, somewhere around Missouri. I kept talking. It hurt like hell to say the words.
“A neighbor heard the shots and called 911. The cops found me on the floor with my gun in my hand. They found GSR on me...I mean, gun-shot residue. So I’d fired the gun. Glory had been hit twice, in her chest. She was across the room from me on the floor. I don’t remember any of it. I guess I was drunk and thought I was trying to shoot an intruder. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and I still don’t know...what...”
I couldn’t talk anymore.
“But they let you go.”
“Yes. It was a forensics screw-up, or an evidence screw-up—I don’t know which. Guns have a signature, and you can tell what bullet came out of what gun. They didn’t match. I mean, one bullet did match, but the other one didn’t. So either the cops on the scene blew it or the evidence was mishandled somewhere in the chain. They didn’t have a case. And no motive. So they dropped it, after nine months.”
“Oh my God.”
I lay back down on the bed. I was going into my black hole, the one that had sucked in all my anger, my grief, and my joy over the last year. My little purgatory of numbness.
Barbara moved over to Alabama. I could smell the bath oil again.
“We could just cuddle,” she said.
“I can’t,” I said.
She got up and walked to the door. “My husband has been married to somebody else for twenty years. Some people could spend the rest of their lives feeling sorry for themselves. I’m not one of them.”
She closed the door and went back to her room.
*
I felt sorry for myself, all right. I could wallow in it. Life was rigged and I’d been shit on, and now Barbara was just making it worse. I got up and went into the kitchen, looking for a drink. There was a fully-stocked bar, and I poured four fingers of bourbon and held up the glass.
Maybe she didn’t mean to, or maybe she did, but she’d pegged me. I was awash in self-pity, sunk deeper than my Taurus in the bayou. A couple of times in my life people had said something to me and their words had cut to the bone, and this was one of them. I felt like an idiot. The bourbon suddenly smelled sour, and I poured it down the sink. I opened the door to Barbara’s room, and could tell she was still awake. I got in the bed with her and lay down behind her, fitting my body to the contour of her back and legs. Spoons, Glory had called it, but I needed to leave Glory behind right now.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Cuddling,” I said.
Some minutes passed and I enjoyed her quiet, rhythmic breathing and her soft warmth. It had been a hell of a long time. Finally, she spoke.
“Vince?” she said.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind if I fuck you while we cuddle?”
FRIDAY
I was supposed to meet the tow truck driver in an hour. I hustled through a quick shower, didn’t bother to shave, and dressed in the guayabera shirt and pants I’d worn yesterday. They needed laundering, but I also needed to carry, and I couldn’t do that in the Oxford cloth shirt and too-tight pants. Barbara was sound asleep so I left her a note. I grabbed the MacBook and my new gun. There was no time for coffee, which was a misdemeanor if not a felony in my book, but I was late. I retrieved the BMW from the parking garage and sped down the Crosstown Expressway toward the
Gandy Boulevard causeway and the Masters Bayou.
The sun was cooking up another steamy August morning and I should have been feeling like hell as I was rushed, unshaven, already sweating in my two-day-old shirt and lacking both coffee and sleep. But I felt terrific. I stood by the boat-launching ramp at the end of Snug Harbor Road and watched my Ford Taurus SHO, friend of many years, slowly emerge from the deep as the tow truck winched it across the silty bottom of the bayou and up the concrete ramp. I loved that car, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about a certain bossy, pain-in-the-ass, headstrong, gorgeous and surprisingly limber client. That pie-ladies stuff must be good for flexibility.
The Taurus was now on terra firma, spewing briny water onto the launch ramp from the door sills. The tow driver was peeling off his wetsuit. I got some cash from my wallet to settle up and asked him where there would be an honest salvage yard as I wanted to sell it. He said he owned a salvage yard and he’d pay me $500 for the car so we could just call it even. Deal, I said.
I took my things out of the trunk, starting with the electronics and tools that I kept in a ballistic nylon duffel. Anything with a battery in it was now useless. My lock-picking kit was soaked, but the tools just needed to be dried out since they were mostly metal or plastic. The portable high-speed drill was kaput, along with its rechargeable batteries. I retrieved my sawed-off shotgun from the spare tire well, where I kept it for absolute emergencies. It was no better for the salt bath, but it wasn’t a precision instrument in the first place. I’d just give it some rehab and keep it—those old guns die hard.
The inside of the car was a mess. It had already silted up because the windows had been left open. My car thief friend probably hadn’t been too thrilled that he’d chosen a car with minimal air conditioning. The computer was in the back on the floor, open and still shiny, but its soul was now in laptop heaven. I left the maps, spare change, pencils and crud for the new owner. I got down on my knees and searched the wet floors and puddles under the seats for the Glock, which had been on the passenger seat as I don’t like to drive with it in the small of my back where the conceal holster fits to my belt. It’s too easy to accidentally leave the safety off and shoot myself in the ass, and I’m pretty certain my insurance wouldn’t cover that.
There was no Glock, just like I had figured. If there’s anything a thief likes more than a free car it’s a free gun; they are easy to fence. He’d get a hundred bucks, max. If I’d known any of the fences in Tampa, I would have put the word out and bought it back for three hundred, but I had other things to do.
Sunset Park was on the route back, and on a whim I drove the convertible to a cross street a few blocks from Hibiscus Pond Drive and opened the new laptop. I checked the cars first; the Lexus was a few miles away, on the move. The van was still stationary in Lake Wales. I ran the listening program. Nothing, no signal. Either somebody had disabled it or it wasn’t working properly. It was finicky, and I’d had to reboot it before. I needed those bugs working if I was going to do my job—sooner or later someone would say something more informative than “a little lower, honey.” Also, I had another item on my agenda: I wanted to see the kid up close, and maybe he’d be home. I’d use my Pool Repairman routine, that way I could get close to the bugging unit and give it a quick reboot.
There was a white Ford Transit van parked in the driveway of the Johannsen house with “Le’s Vending” stenciled on the door. Somebody was home. I pulled in next to it and waved at Hawkeye, across the street tending his domain, and he waved back. I tried to look like a Pool Repair Guy, but I was driving the BMW, which was the wrong set of wheels for the job. I decided I’d better be Pool Replacement Estimator Guy instead. They were the pencil pushers who didn’t drive trucks. I knocked on the Johannsens’ front door and Philip answered.
He was bigger than he’d looked from a distance, or at least taller. He stood almost as tall as D.B., but he hadn’t fleshed out yet—he was still a skinny kid. His hair was somewhere between Asian-black and chestnut, and he had the beginnings of a beard. He looked at me with the distaste that kids his age reserve for anyone over the age of forty, not counting the members of Metallica.
“What do you want?”
“David Johannsen?”
“No.”
“Does David Johannsen live here?”
“Who wants to know?”
Wiseass. “I do.”
“Fuck off.”
If my doorstep interview was going to continue like this I would have to sucker punch the little bastard. I’d seen plenty of bad attitudes when I was on the force, but his had a real edge on it. I decided to be nice, and smiled.
“Your dad called me. I’m supposed to do the estimate for your pool.”
“It’s out back,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”
He closed the door in my face. Fuck you too, kid.
I went around to the back and opened the pool gate. The little black box was still attached, so at least they hadn’t discovered it. I got to work rebooting it. The kid appeared at the back door.
“Hey bro,” he shouted. “What are you doing back there?”
I was done with the reboot, it only needed unplugging and replugging and the display went back on. I closed the gate and walked up to Philip.
“I’m doing what your daddy asked me to.” I looked him right in the eye, from a few feet away. “Is that going to be a problem?” There was no smile on my face now. This was my Clint Eastwood squint; all the cops know that one. A little intimidation can sometimes reveal a lot.
He went back into the house, leaving the door open, and reappeared a few moments later. He had a Glock 26 in his hand, my Glock 26, I could tell from the scratches. You get to know your own gun. He pointed it at my face.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
I could have disarmed him, he was just a kid, but I turned and left. I knew I had my car thief—and maybe my shooter, too.
*
I drove back to the hotel with my trunk-full of soaking wet snooping equipment. This time I gave the BMW keys to the valet and told him to keep it out front, we’d be leaving soon, and not to take anything out of it or I’d be very unhappy. I must have looked like I meant it; he bowed solicitously and swore he’d guard it personally. They’re used to beer wholesalers and stockbrokers here, not coffee-deprived ruffians who needed a shave.
*
Barbara had ordered room service and there was a tray in the room with croissants, Danish pastries, melon, granola, fresh-squeezed orange juice and a big carafe of hot coffee. I heard her in the bathroom, and, while I waited, I ate everything in sight and poured a belated but extremely welcome cup of coffee. Apparently I had worked up a pretty good appetite the night before.
She came out, dressed up, made up, and looking fantastic. She gave me a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.
“I found out who boosted my car,” I said. Barbara frowned. Oops. I probably should have said something about how awesome she was last night.
“How wonderful,” she said. Yes, I definitely have a way with women. It’s called the wrong way.
“Sorry, I’m a clod,” I said, backpedalling. “Can we just roll the tape back, and I’ll come in the door all over again?”
“Sure. But this time, leave me a croissant.” She laughed, and I was off the hook, at least for now.
“I’m going to shave,” I said.
“You can’t wear that shirt,” she said. “Change it.”
“OK.” It wasn’t even eleven o’clock and people had been bossing me around all day. Sticking guns in my face, making me change clothes. I retreated to the comfort of the bathroom, which was the size of my garage at home. It was equipped with disposable razors and Truefitt & Hill shaving soap, the best on the planet. Some guys don’t like to shave, but I love it. I need coffee and a good shave in the morning to feel human again.
Barbara came into the bathroom and put her arms around my waist while I watched her in the mirror, the soap on my face and razor in my hand.
“What time do we have to check out of the room?” she said, purring.
“Right now,” I said. “They have to get it ready for the Green Bay Packers—they’re staying here tonight.”
“Maybe I should stick around,” she said, purring again. “But I wouldn’t want to mess up my makeup.”
“We have places to go,” I said. “Isn’t today when C.J. drives back to Vero?”
“Yes. He usually gets home in the late afternoon.”
“We’d better get moving. I’d like to beat him to Lake Wales. I’ll check and see where the Lexus is as soon as I finish shaving.”
She let go of my waist and began to assemble her things. I scraped away the last few soapy spots, rinsed, patted my face dry with a plush towel and put on the Oxford cloth shirt. If I wore the blazer it would hide the gun, even though I’d be hot and would look like somebody called Chip from the yacht club. I was glad my parents hadn’t named me Chip.
*
We were halfway to Lake Wales on Highway 60 with the convertible top down, at Barbara’s insistence. She’d stopped in a roadside shop and bought us hats, a pink visor for her and a New York Yankees cap for me, which I could have been prosecuted for wearing back in Red Sox Nation. The Lexus was still in Tampa, so for once we had a head start. The wind noise in the car made it hard to talk, so we rode with our thoughts. I was mulling over what I’d seen at the Johannsen house. I wondered if it could have been the kid who had taken the shots at Barbara. The time someone had shot at her in the Publix lot she’d seen the red Lexus, and that would have been Tuesday morning, right before she’d called me. That was when C.J. was still in Vero, on his beach walk. Theoretically, the Lexus would have been in the storage unit in Lake Wales that day. So, even though C.J. was in Vero, he had something of an alibi because his car wasn’t. Then who was driving the car?
My thought was that it was the kid. I tried to back into a rationale, a motive. Le may have been OK with the don’t-ask-don’t-tell marriage she lived in, but maybe the son wasn’t. Maybe the boy was pissed that his dad was gone all the time. Not that a kid that age would ever admit it, but those years are when young people, especially boys, need their fathers the most.