by Tom Larsen
***
“And don’t volunteer anything. The less you say, the less you have to remember. Just act like you’re in shock.” Harry pockets both wallets.
“Act?” Lena’s voice comes from the shadows.
“Don’t try to help them. If they don’t ask you for something, don’t give it to them.”
“I’m cold.”
“Never underestimate the power of incompetence, Lena. It’s what made the Third World what it is today.”
“What about that,” she points to the syringe on the counter.
“I’ll get rid of everything. Wait a half hour after I’m gone then call the police.”
Lena dabs her nose with a tissue.
“Hey,” Harry kneels down next to her. “Don’t come apart on me now, Lena. Listen, you don’t have to lie. You don’t have to remember anything except that’s your husband and he’s dead.”
Lena can’t bring herself to look.
“Don’t forget. When you get home you place an ad in the Catskill classifieds, like we said. One of those thank you God messages with a PV for Puerto Vallarta so I’ll know everything’s okay.”
“But which paper?”
“All of them. How many could they have?”
“When will I hear from you?”
“I told you,” Harry wipes down the glasses. “I’ll call you on the 1st at the market. 12.00 p.m., the pay phone on Christian.”
“That’s two weeks!”
“Has to be that way, Lena. Any contact will trip us up.”
“That’s crazy. Get a burner cellphone. They’re untraceable.”
“That’s just what they want you to think. We call, we get caught.”
“By the 1st I might be in the slammer.”
“Don’t think like that, Lena. It’s the only way it works. No contact.”
Lena’s eyes fill with tears. “I don’t think I can do it, Harry.”
“Okay, fine,” Harry wags a hand at Stevie. “We’ll just tell them he forced his way in and killed himself on our couch.”
“I never thought you’d really go through with it.”
“No problem, just a little miscommunication. Hey, my fault completely.”
“Don’t hate me Harry.”
“No, hey, we go on just like always except for the jobs and the rosy future.”
Lena says nothing, Harry shrugs and reaches for the phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“I had no right to get you involved in this. I must– yes, give me 911, please?”
“Hang it up, Harry.”
“Hi yes, I’m sorry, 9–”
Lena pushes the button. “Stop.”
Harry moves her hand and dials again. “It’s okay. I’ll tell them you weren’t even here.”
“It won’t change anything,” she takes the phone from him. “He’s dead no matter what we do.” They look to Stevie, head cocked, eyes still locked on the ceiling.
“Well yeah, but now you’ve got to deal with police and then you have to pretend to be a widow. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s way too much to ask of you.”
“We never talked about this part of it. What it does to us?”
“We’ll just tell the truth. We came home from the bar. We had a drink and the guy had a heart attack. They’ll go for it.”
“No, no, I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay,” Harry pulls out the stops. “I’ve done this to you and I’ll never forgive myself. Hell, I spent three days trying to peddle your ass and now I’ve finally killed somebody. You should get as far away from me as you can.”
“It’s almost like we owe it to him.”
“You think?”
“We’ve come this far.”
“Yeah,” he looks again to Stevie. “It would be a shame.”
“Be careful Harry,” she hugs him to her. “You got enough money?”
Harry sneaks a peek at his watch. “Not a problem. The guy had a wad.”
CHAPTER NINE
Once, when Lena was a girl, her parents left her behind in a restaurant. It was a family gathering, the grownups had been drinking and somehow no one missed her until they got home. Lena sat alone in the restaurant lobby trying not to attract attention. She can still remember cars pulling up outside, the well-fed look of families going home. Someone finally noticed and she was taken to the manager’s office. They were nice enough, but when no one came to claim her talk turned to the police.
“No, please,” she begged them. “Someone will come soon.”
“Don’t worry,” the manager told her. “The police are your friends.”
Lena was young but she watched television. Cops were always the worst thing that could happen. Her father showed up before it got that far, but she never forgot the chill.
“Are you cold, señora? I can get you a wrap.”
“I’m okay.”
“Again, our condolences for your misfortune,” the lieutenant nods to the medics circling the body.
“Thank you,” she forces her hands between her knees. “I guess it hasn’t hit me yet.”
“Mrs. Watts, you say your husband had a heart condition?” the man in the suit asks her.
“It ran in the family. But Harry never went to the doctor.”
“I see, so we can assume.”
“I suppose so, yes. Please, could you cover him at least?”
The lieutenant smiles sadly. “I’m sorry, the lab team will be done soon. If you like, we could use the other room?”
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“Of course. We understand what you’re going through. Tragedies like this are rare in Puerto Vallarta, but not unheard of. We’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”
There’s a commotion outside and a third cop enters with a silver haired man in a burgundy bathrobe.
“What is it, Morales?” the man stops when he sees Stevie. “Oh my goodness!”
The lieutenant sighs. “Heart attack, apparently.”
“I saw the police cars from my window. Can I be of any assistance?”
The lieutenant turns to Lena. “Mrs. Watts, this is Mr. Santos. He’s with the Chamber of Commerce.”
Lena smiles weakly.
“Poor thing. Why she’s freezing,” Santos shrugs out of the robe and wraps it over her shoulders. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t think straight.”
“Of course you can’t. This is a terrible thing. Sergeant Morales is a good friend of mine. Excellent man.”
“That’s Lieutenant,” Morales grumbles.
“Right, and in light of the circumstances, the late hour, the traumatic–”
“Please,” Lena sniffles. “I don’t think I can stay here tonight.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll book you a room in the hotel. Would you excuse us for a minute?” Santos takes Morales by the arm and guides him outside. They huddle by the pool in quiet discussion, returning moments later with a plan of action.
“My heartfelt sympathies, Mrs. Watts,” Santos stands beside her. “Please, allow me to speak frankly. As head of the Chamber of Commerce I am not without influence in official circles. I would be grateful if you would allow me to represent you in this unfortunate matter.”
“Mr. Santos is also an attorney,” the lieutenant explains.
“I can assure you that you will not be inconvenienced any more than is absolutely necessary.”
Lena lets a tear roll down. “Oh, how can I thank you?”
Santos takes her hand. “I am at your service. I’ve persuaded Sergeant Morales to forego questioning until tomorrow. If you have no objections I will call a taxi to take you to the hotel.”
“Thank you so much.”
While he’s on the phone a team wanders in from the coroner’s office. Lena watches as they empty Stevie’s pajama pockets, sealing things up in a clear plastic bag. The lieut
enant flips through the wallet without an expression. So far, so good. If she can latch on to this Santos he might just waltz her through it.
“A taxi will be here shortly,” he calls over and signals someone for a pencil. Handsome in his slippers and pin stripe pajamas. The way he seems to be taking over, cutting through the bullshit like he always runs the show. Sometimes what you get is exactly what you need.
“I’ll have to pack a few things,” she forces herself to her feet.
“Take your time. I’ve got a few more calls to make.”
Calls to make, a lawyer, by God! Just popping up like that! An hour into it and the whole mess is out of her hands. Lena smiles to herself and heads for the bedroom. One of the cops falls in behind her but Santos sends him off.
“A little privacy captain, if you please?”
Mover and shaker, puller of strings, oh, if Harry could only see this! She grabs her new dress, some shorts and tank tops, the ones you can see her nipples through.
“Forgive me for interfering,” Santos escorts her to the waiting cab. “I know you must be in a state of shock. It will be better for me to stay here. I am accustomed to dealing with the authorities and my presence will serve to expedite matters.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Nonsense, it’s the very least I can do. Is there someone I could contact for you? Family?”
“I’ll have to do it. I just can’t believe this.”
“Be strong,” Santos soothes her. “Just remember you are not alone.”
“I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“Repay me? Don’t worry yourself. Try and get some rest. I will call for you tomorrow. Say, 9.00 a.m.-ish?”
***
He arrives on the dot in a seersucker suit and Panama hat, native son, patriarch, a man who commands attention just walking down the street.
“My friends call me Carlos. May I call you Lena?”
“Please.”
“There are a number of details we should discuss that might strike you as, well, intrusive? I trust you will bear with me.”
“I’m okay, really, Carlos.”
“Do you have children, Lena?”
“No. Too selfish, I guess. That must sound terrible.”
“Not at all,” he presses a hand to the small of her back. “I, too, am childless by choice.”
“Harry worried about dying young, like his dad.”
“A noble sentiment, though children can be a comfort at times like this.”
“I was the only family he had.”
“He could do worse, I assure you.”
The widow Watts goes to work. “Harry really loved this. The tropics, you know, especially Mexico. Ever since we were kids he’d say, ‘someday I’m gonna live there.’”
“I’m afraid I would have liked your Harry.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“Well, I just mean it’s a pity we’ll never have the chance to be friends?”
“Yes, you would have liked him. And he’d be grateful to you for what you’ve done, terribly grateful.”
“I’m sure in my position he would do the same.”
“Truth is, I’m no good in a crisis. Things go wrong and I fall to pieces. Harry knew that.”
“You’ve done no such thing. Considering the circumstances your composure is quite admirable.”
Lena swings her arms like a schoolgirl. “Viva Mexico, is that how you say it?”
“Viva Mexico, si.”
“Yeah, Harry was nuts about it. He had a saying ‘when it’s time for me to go, lay me down in old Mexico.’”
“I never heard this expression.”
“The cold really bothered Harry. He worried about it.”
“Cold?”
“And what happens to you after, you know. That’s why he wanted to be cremated.”
“He discussed this with you?”
“Oh sure. He had this big thing about dying. Sort of an obsession, death and decomposition, he never shut up about it.”
“Forgive me. Americans have such peculiar ways.”
“Now I have to ship him home in February. God knows what that will cost me. I swear Harry never had any luck.”
“Tell me Lena, do you have any relatives here in Mexico?”
“No. Why do you ask, Carlos?”
“Well, sometimes arrangements can be made.”
“Arrangements?”
Santos flashes his can-do smile and takes Lena by the elbow “Let’s just get this business with Morales over with. Then we’ll see what I can do.”
***
Harry still can’t get over it. Passive-aggressive never works with Lena, but it was the only thing he could think of. The 911 call clinched it. Do they even have 911 in Mexico? Actually dialed the fucking number and pretended to speak with someone, fast on his feet just like the old days. Lena’s a whiz at matching wits, but this time he pushed the right button.
Too fucking much, yeah.
Just killed a guy, now he’s sitting on a plane laughing. What a sick fuck he’s turned out to be. Cold blooded killer with a shit sense of humor. Never thought his conscience would be a problem, but laughing about it? That’s disturbing. And then he thinks of something else, something hard to express, but painful to realize. Harry’s always considered himself a decent sort. Not a saint maybe, but someone you could trust. That part of him has changed forever. A decent guy doesn’t take out a stranger. A decent guy doesn’t let you grab the check before he kills you.
Stevie was a class act, Harry has to admit, a tad camp but clever. Best back and forth he’s had in years. Now he’s dead and it’s on Harry’s head.
But he was going to die soon, anyway! They really did spare him the messy part, the pain and suffering. Stevie wouldn’t have handled it well would be Harry’s bet, as if his bets ever paid off. Might have handled it like a trooper, for all he really knows. Not that he’s going to beat himself up about it, but a heavy load is nothing to laugh about.
He did say he was going to die. Harry distinctly remembers. Not in those words, but that was the inference. Hopeless, that’s what he said. Hopeless means without hope, that simple! But what if it wasn’t that simple? What if hopeless really meant incurable or inoperable? Stevie might’ve lived with whatever for years before it killed him.
The last ditch something, the stuff about the sand bags, it starts to come back to him. Whatever treatment Stevie was getting wasn’t working and that meant curtains. It had to, otherwise why come down here to kill yourself. He did say that! Absolutely said that in the restaurant, or maybe it was the bar, either one. But if he can’t even be sure of which one, how can he be . . .
For Christ’s sake, think about something else. Think about what Lena’s going through and how he could leave her in the lurch like that. But, of course, that’s even worse. And it’s not her end that really worries him. Try to relax, read a magazine. He leaf’s through the In Flight in half a minute.
“Excuse me, miss?” he hails an attendant. “Do you happen to know if Mexico has the 911 Emergency response system?”
“No, sorry. Maybe I can find that out for you.”
“In Mexico? No way, Jose, they can’t count that high, ” a guy three seats up hollers back to him.
Harry gives him a fuck off wave.
Why get worked up about nothing. What he couldn’t plan for, the disorienting effects of killing somebody. The plane doesn’t help with the weird acoustics and all that sky. Maybe shut his eyes, try to catch a nap. By nightfall he’ll be in the Catskill Mountains and Harry J Watts will cease to exist. Takes nerves of steel to do what he did, steel nerves and a strong stomach, fumbling around with a dead guy’s dick. But he did it and the checks will soon come rolling in. Think about that for a while, why don’t you? What you can buy!
They should top off at over a million with the insurance! A million bucks, how ‘bout that! They’ll get a nice place in the cou
ntry, one of those log cabins they’re building now, deer and the antelope playing on the hillside. Quit the city for once and for all. Still nice in the Catskills, scenery to die for and low taxes, Harry checked into it. They can get back to the land and still be a train ride from Times Square. A cabin, an SUV as big as a bulldozer, the rest Lena can spend as she pleases. All of it, until death do they part.
Yeah, the 911 call was brilliant. To quit when the guy’s already dead, Harry’s play put it all on Lena. More of that cold blood, but what choice did he have? She’s in it now, that’s the key. The grieving widow better be good, Lena was born to the role. If the phone call hadn’t work he would have threatened to kill himself. When there’s no turning back you do what it takes. What’s emotional blackmail compared to killing someone for no good reason. Right now, on a slab at city morgue, Stevie stitched up from stem to sternum.
He tries to find something on the headset to distract himself, a bluegrass channel, NPR, classic rock, as if we haven’t had a belly full. He finds a spot on the band that’s just static, the low hiss of ambience, the whitest noise . . .
. . . And who the hell was Roland, anyway? And why was Stevie mad at him? Stevie never mentioned the guy, but why would he? Did they know each other or was Roland just another gay guy cruising the hallways. Harry shouldn’t think about him, the one fly in the ointment, if he doesn’t count the Snoozer at the desk. Which he is definitely not counting, since the man never looked up from the console, or whatever it–
Console! Good Christ, the whole thing must be on security tape! Oh Jesus, don’t do this, don’t, just think, think, what would they see? A tall guy in Stevie’s jacket and tie. So they see his face, what could it tell them? But what if there were cameras at the restaurant? And is it standard procedure to review security tapes? What the hell does he know, anyway?
Okay, alright, there’re bound to be doubts in this sort of thing. Murder, what it does to you, the ways you can trip up, give yourself away. They’ve written a thousand books about it. Harry couldn’t name one, but it’s a theme. How the crime consumes the criminal. Never thought of himself as a criminal, but how else to put it? Capital crime, at that, the big one, homicide, how they put so much into catching the killers. Always some gumshoe mad to get to the bottom of things, at least on television. Might try and figure a defense, now that he’s got some time on his hands. Just in case. Getting caught isn’t always the end. Diminished capacity, like he said to Lena. He’s seen them pull the fast ones on television. The daily cop show bombardment, watch enough and you’ll consider it. The Dick Wolf defense, he could see that working, hears the grumbles from the gallery as they read the verdict. Tough luck, Jack, can’t win ‘em all.