Dying Embers

by Robert E. Bailey

  “Matty, the FBI Agent—your friend—said that the details of this case were ‘confidential.’ She said this was an open case and that she wouldn’t be able to testify on my behalf.”

  I turned right onto the next residential street and parked at the curb. I leaned on the car to get back to the trunk and set my suitcases in the street. At the open driver’s door I took my cane off the floor in the back and dropped the keys on the seat. “Go home,” I said.

  “Art!” she said. “What are you doing? You can’t walk.”

  I shut the door, stuffed the two-suiter under my left arm, and got the handle of the suitcase with my left hand. My shoulder should have hurt. It didn’t. I leaned on the cane and started back up to the main drag a step at a time.

  At the corner Wendy pulled to the curb, on the wrong side of the street, and ran the window down. “At least let me take you to a motel,” she said.

  “You don’t want to be hanging around with me,” I said. Carrying the two-suiter under my arm wasn’t working. I set the bags down and got them both by the handle. A station wagon turned onto the street and squealed to a stop. The driver cursed out the window.

  “You’re not safe out here,” said Wendy.

  “You’re not safe if you’re with me,” I said.

  “You fucking bitch,” yelled the driver of the station wagon. “Move that goddamn car!”

  I dropped the bags and walked over to the driver’s window of the stationwagon. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, and hooked the cane around the driver’s neck to pull his head out to where we could be eye to eye—he was maybe nineteen, and liquored up. “Perhaps there’s another way to resolve this matter. Sir?”

  He squeaked out an answer. “I could just go around.”

  “My man,” I said. “You have far to go to get home?”

  “Down the street.” He rolled his gaze around my face with horror in his eyes. “A couple houses.”

  “Good. When I let go of you, you put your head on the seat and rest until we are gone. If you don’t, I’m going to hurt you.”

  I hobbled over, picked up the bags and returned to the driver’s window of the wagon. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m resting.”

  “My man. I have to tell the lady that you apologized for the language.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I put the bags in the back seat of the Cadillac, took the shotgun seat, and pulled the door shut. “He’s had a bit to drink,” I said. “Says he’s sorry for the language and is just going to rest there for a bit until we are gone.”

  Wendy drove. Streets came and went. Stoplights were streaks of red and green. I tried to imagine my life without Wendy. Nothing came to mind.

  20

  THE SIGN READS “EXIT TO JUPITER” and keeps getting stolen. Wendy made the turn, took the Jupiter Street bridge across the Grand River, and turned east onto Rouge River Drive. She picked the Anchor Inn, north and east of the city.

  The Anchor Inn is a Ma-and-Pa-Kettle motel consisting of a string of ground floor rooms with a gravel drive. The rates are cheap, but not cheap enough for me to stay for long.

  Wendy said, “I’ll get the room.”

  I watched through the window. She used her beloved credit card and there’d be hell to pay for that. Back in the car, she drove to the last unit, handed me the key, and said, “I’ll help you get the bags.”

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  “C’mon,” she said. “We’ll make it in one trip.”

  I unlocked the door, stumbled in, and threw the cane on the bed. Wendy set down the two-suiter, pushed the door shut, and leaned her back against it. “I’m staying,” she said.

  “There’s only one bed.” I switched on the lights, revealing knotty pine walls and a splatter painted ceiling. The double bed, draped in a red spread, filled most of the room.

  “We’ll make do,” said Wendy.

  In my mind I had a picture of her sitting and staring wistfully out this window instead of one at the house. “Suit yourself,” I said, and pulled the curtains closed. “You want to use the shower?” I swung the suitcase onto the bed, flopped the lid open, and tossed the Detonics and Wendy’s Maverick .380 on the spread.

  “Just let me call the house,” said Wendy. “There’s a spare magazine in my purse.”

  I set Wendy’s purse on the bedside table next to the telephone and racked a fresh magazine in the Detonics. She dialed the house. I hit the bathroom—commode and a white metal shower stall—for a pit-stop before Wendy tied up the room. “Your dad’s okay,” said Wendy. “I’m here with him. Take this telephone number … I want you to drive Ben to school in the morning … So, don’t pull in the lot … And if I’m not back, I want you to pick him up at the bus stop.”

  I hobbled out and hung my cane on the doorknob. Wendy brushed by. In the bathroom the faucet handles squeaked and the pipes hammered as Wendy turned on the shower. I snapped on the TV. The cable was out, and I dialed the desk. They knew; that’s why we got a discount. For entertainment I sat on the bed and changed the bandage on my foot.

  Wendy settled on the bed next to me, smelling scrubbed and wearing one of my white T-shirts—her nipples and panty lines imprinted in the thin fabric. She rubbed her palm on my cheek and then rested two fingers on my lip.

  “They shave your moustache for the stitches?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “The stitches are ready to come out,” she said. “Hand me my purse.”

  She wrestled her glasses from the purse and a pair of cuticle scissors from a black zippered case. Pushing me closer to the light, she tilted her head back to study my lip through the bottom half of her glasses. I looked down to watch her fingers but my eyes settled on her breasts.

  Wendy smiled. “Got something on your mind?” She pulled on one of the stitches and snipped.

  “You need to get a couple guys with a video camera on Hank Dunphy,” I said.

  “Done. Anything else?” She pulled on the second stitch and snipped.

  “Lorna Kemp,” I said.

  Wendy’s hands dropped into her lap. Her eyes wide, she said “Really?”

  “She needs to be on your payroll, to keep her carry permit valid.”

  Wendy dropped the stitches in the ashtray. “Sure,” she said, “I’ll only have a license for a couple weeks anyway.”

  I closed the lid on the suitcase, stationed it in front of the door, and moved the chair from the bedside table to the foot of the bed. Sitting on the chair, I rested my feet on the suitcase and settled my pistol onto my lap.

  Wendy crawled across the bed and stood behind me. She rubbed my cheek, resting her other hand on my shoulder. “You can shave now,” she said.

  “Thought I’d grow a beard,” I said. “I need something to hold up the nose brace.”

  “I talked to my doctor.”

  “It’s an allergy?”

  “It’s menopause.” Wendy’s voice broke. She covered it with a chuckle and added, “I’m getting old, Darlin.’”

  I’m sorry? Wrong answer! Don’t worry?—borders on stupid. Wendy gripped my shoulders, massaged one circle with her thumbs, and heaved a ragged sigh that I felt shift the hair combed over the bald spot at the back of my head.

  I went with, “I don’t think of us as old.”

  “We’re not kids anymore, Art.”

  “Sure we are,” I said. “That’s what my dad calls us—’the kids.’”

  “He’s ninety-three.”

  “On his third wife and plays golf twice a week.”

  “Miniature golf,” said Wendy.

  “Only has to carry one club that way,” I said. “Says golf is all about the putting game, anyway.”

  “And the point is?”

  “The point is we are too young to focus on the putting game, too young for free coffee at Mickey D’s, and too young for Social Security.”

  “They sent me an AARP card,” said Wendy, her voice not amused.

  “And we’re too young for the ‘
senior discounts.’”

  Wendy kissed my bald spot.

  “We’re at a awkward age,” I said. “It’s like being six years old on a hot summer day. You’re too young to decide to water the grass and too old to rollerskate naked in the lawn sprinkler.”

  Wendy whacked the bald spot with her fingers, rested her hand back on my shoulder, and said, “The doctor said I might get a little cranky.”

  “Not so’s I’ve noticed,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  I patted her hand. Wendy didn’t drink. Only anger gave light to her unvarnished thoughts. “I know,” I said. “You came back and saved my life. What else could I ask for?”

  Wendy slipped her hand off my shoulder. I heard a rustle of clothing, and pink nylon panties dropped into my lap.

  I went to bed.

  • • •

  Cool and overcast, the morning delivered up rain that hung in the air like mist. In the parking lot behind my office, news vans had replaced the government sedans.

  Wendy pulled up to the stairwell.

  “Glad I shaved,” I said. “I’m not hauling my luggage into the office in front of these news crews.”

  “I’ll be back for you tonight.”

  Delia Dumas bailed out of the Live News at Five van. Her umbrella, with red and white panels, snapped open like it had been on a static line. Today was mauve blazer and yellow blouse day. A morning breeze tugged at the bumbershoot, but Delia’s hair held its ground.

  I buttoned my gray pinstriped suit coat and straightened my tie. Rounding the front of the Cadillac, I made a point not to make eye contact with Delia. Wendy lowered her window.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Wendy said.

  “All I’ve got is a check,” I said, and reached for my wallet. “It’s only eighty-four dollars, but I think it will cover what you put on your card.”

  Wendy closed her eyes and arched her eyebrows. “You’ve got me,” Wendy said. She opened her eyes. “And I want a kiss.”

  I bent over, put my hand on Wendy’s shoulder, and gave her a buzz. Delia’s cameraman—his camera in a clear plastic shroud—made it news. Print photographers added flash.

  When I stood up, Delia had her hand mike in my face. “Mr. Hardin, can you tell us what happened here last night?”

  “No.” I turned and lumbered toward the stairs.

  “The FBI has released a statement,” she said.

  I said, “The FBI has an office downtown.”

  “Who was ‘El Guitmo?’ Why would the FBI confront an international terrorist at your office?”

  The driver’s door to the Cadillac opened. Wendy, still in my jeans and dress shirt, launched. She grabbed the microphone and pulled it up to her face.

  She said, “Where do you get off calling anyone a terrorist? You said he was a ‘reliable source,’ when he was spreading filth about my husband. You’re the terrorist.”

  The print guys got their cameras busy. Delia’s cameraman swung his camera to Wendy. Two other news crews picked up the stroke. I made good my escape.

  “You put his lies on the news” said Wendy. “You ruined our lives. There wouldn’t be terrorists if people like you refused to do their bidding.”

  From the top of the stairs I heard Wendy pull her car door shut. I turned to see the crowd of newsies part as she pulled the Caddy into reverse. I ducked in the door, grabbed the hand rail, and hopped down the steps on my good foot.

  Through the office window I could see Marg at work at her desk, which was parked on the bare concrete floor—the FBI having ripped up the carpet and taken it away as “evidence.” I tried the office door and found it locked. The herd of newsies was already on the stairs. Marg looked up from her work as I jangled my keys to twist the lock.

  Still long steps away the chorus of voices began as I pushed the door open, “Mr. Hardin! Mr Hardin! Mr. Hardin!” I pulled the door after me and locked it.

  Marg arched one eyebrow under her new shag hairdo. She wore a red blouse with puff sleeves and had a client’s books open for entries. She looked over the half-glasses perched on the end of her nose and said, “Redecorating?”

  The newshounds knocked at the door. I ignored them.

  “Got a visit from the notorious ‘El Guitmo’ last night.”

  “Headline was bigger than the story,” she said. Something about an international terrorist killed in a clash with federal agents—no real details.”

  Delia Dumas pecked at the window with a coin. I looked up. Her lips were moving. Her cameraman cranked away over her shoulder.

  “I should have listened when you said we needed blinds on that window,” I said, and started into my office.

  “I’ll remind you when we redecorate,” said Marg. As I passed her desk Marg pushed a registered letter my direction.

  “County Gun Board,” she said. “Came this morning.”

  My cane made hollow thunks on the bare cement floor. I hung it on the edge of my desk and flopped into my chair to peel open the envelope. I was summoned to a hearing of the Gun Board on Thursday next and cautioned not to carry a concealed weapon “if you no longer have a valid detective’s license.”

  From my top desk drawer I extracted the brown envelope of orders Matty had left with my son, folded it into thirds, and stashed it in the breast pocket of my suit jacket. The front door opened and out of habit I looked up to where the monitor should have been hanging and saw the cable and power cord dangling from the ceiling.

  “Excuse me,” said the voice of Detective Van Huis, his tone gruff. “No, you can wait outside. Back up! The lady wants to lock the door.”

  I shrugged out of my suit jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. When I turned back, Van Huis flopped the morning paper onto my desk. I read the banner headline, TERRORIST DEAD, and the tag line—STALKED KENTWOOD P.I.

  “What the hell is this?” he said.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t read the paper.”

  “What the hell happened? Feds won’t say shit!”

  I picked up the paper and turned it around.

  “How come your window’s boarded up?”

  “I’m being stalked by terrorists.”

  “Where’s your carpet? Where’s your office door? Where’s that damn monitor I have to duck to sit in this chair?”

  “Gone.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask the feds.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  I picked up my telephone, sat it in the middle of the desk, and spoke to it, “Specifically, Detective Van Huis, I have nothing to add to what the FBI has released for publication.”

  Van Huis leaned forward, and with his palms on the desk, yelled at the telephone. “I want to know what the explosions in the parking lot were. I want to know why we recovered your janitor’s stolen van shot full of holes and burned to a hulk.” He looked at me and added in a normal voice, “Well?”

  “I was inside, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The explosions were loud. I heard a lot of shooting. I don’t know about the van. I was here. I talked with you in the street last night. Are you telling me that my janitor is stalking me?”

  “All right,” said Van Huis. “I can play this, too. You don’t have a detective license. You don’t have any business walking around with that pistol on your hip.”

  “This is private property, and I am now the Security Director for Light and Energy Applications.”

  “I catch you on the street wearing that pistol and I am going to run you in. I don’t care about your weasel-ass attorney or how many feds pop out of the woodwork.”

  The telephone rang. Marg picked it up. “Security, Light and Energy Applications,” she said.

  I always knew she was listening.

  “Yes, he’s in,” she said. “Just a moment please.” She announced from her desk, “Pete Finney on line one.”

  “It’s my pet weasel,” I said. “You want to talk to him?”

  “Just tell him you’re going
to need bail.”

  “If I go out there unarmed and get killed, who are you going to get your answers from?”

  “Art,” Van Huis said, “I’m a policeman. I’m going to try to see that you don’t get killed—even if you won’t help me.” He turned to walk out of the office.

  “Jerry,” I said. He looked over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Van Huis nodded and stepped through the door.

  “Forgot your paper,” I said.

  “Already read it.”

  I picked up the telephone. “Pete, I’m glad you called. Something’s come up that we need to talk about. It concerns the Lambert case.”

  “Good,” said Finney. “Scott Lambert is the reason I called. I need you to join me for a conference with Mr. Lambert this morning. Can you be at the county jail in an hour?”

  “Are you at your office?”

  “Yes, I have a couple of small matters to clear up.”

  “Great, I need a ride,” I said.

  “I have a motion with Judge Barton this afternoon.”

  “Back up!” I heard Van Huis growl from the door to the hallway. “No. You can’t wait in the office. Clear the doorway.”

  “I’ll fend for myself when we’re done,” I told him. “From the sound of the local police, I may not need a ride back.”

  “We might find that advantageous. Scott was set upon by a gang of hooligans in the jail last night.”

  • • •

  “All very interesting, Arthur,” said Finney—made it sound like “Awtha,” minds his r’s in the courtroom, though—”but it’s hearsay. And then the prosecutor asks why this man cannot be called as a witness and you answer, ‘I am ever so sorry sir, but someone blew his head off.’”

  Finney nailed the brakes and swerved right to avoid a left turner. “Heathen,” he said.

  “Had his signal on, Pete.”

  “Wouldn’t be a problem if Americans drove on the proper side of the street.”

  “No, I guess then he’d have been turning right.” I hooked up my seat belt.

  “Exactly,” said Pete. “But we have to deal with things such as they are. In Mr. Lambert’s case, he had an ugly scene with the deceased just prior to her violent demise and the authorities recovered his hair from her hand.”