Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  “Of course there’s a choice,” Averly said, a scarlet hue rising on his face from Carillo’s insubordination. “There are at least three other experienced men in the department I can send over to the Riley house for that wiretap. You have your current assignment, and you’ll continue working it.”

  “The sensible thing would be to send me,” Carillo insisted.

  “Don’t tell me what’s sensible,” Averly barked. “The captain wants Frank Breasher on it.”

  Carillo knew Averly was falling short of the truth on this one. “Look, I know the case and I know the Rileys,” he said, now less edgy. “Frank Breasher’s perfectly capable of taking my case, and he’s available.”

  “Breasher’s on the Breckenridge case.”

  “Like that’s going anywhere,” Carillo countered.

  There was a long silence. Carillo watched Averly slowly step sideways, plop down in the ragged brown leatherette chair behind his desk, and reach for his neck. He leaned back and the chair let out a low creaking sound, and then he tugged at his shirt collar, attempting to loosen both his tie and shirt at the same time. How anyone could wear an orange-and-green Jerry Garcia tie with a light-brown tattersall button-down was beyond Carillo’s comprehension.

  Averly’s chest heaved, followed by an overstated sigh that sent a redolence of egg-salad combined with an undertone of last night’s whiskey in Carillo’s direction. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But the captain’s got to clear it.”

  Carillo fought to suffocate a grin breaking out on his round face. “I understand,” he said.

  Then he turned and walked out of Averly’s office, closing the door behind him. That’s when the smile escaped, a big ear-to-ear one, as he replayed the conversation he’d had earlier that morning with Captain Strable concerning the phone call the Rileys received last night.

  96

  THE BLACK OLDS hesitated momentarily, jerked twice, and then continued its slow roll into the dimly-lit parking lot of Baby Dolls. Sikes eased the car to the back of the pothole-strewn lot, parking a good distance from the cluster of pickup trucks, SUVs, and sedans packed in close behind the building.

  He plodded up the alleyway leading to Atlantic Avenue, listening to the thumping beat of music coming from inside the lounge. His heavy black boots hit hard on the pavement synchronized to the beat of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” He always liked Aerosmith, and Mötley Crüe, and Guns N’ Roses, especially Guns N’ Roses. But Mother didn’t let him listen to that kind of music. Never. “That’s the devil’s music,” she would preach. “It’ll rot your mind.”

  Fuck Mother, he thought, as he reached out for the shiny brass door handle. The heavy wooden door flew open, rapping hard against his knuckles. Two men stumbled through the doorway and onto the sidewalk. One had long dark hair parted down the middle, and wore a tattered red nylon jacket. He stared at Sikes for a moment with drunken red eyes and then finally spoke.

  “What’re you lookin’ at?” he muttered in an alcohol-soaked gurgle.

  “Nothing,” Sikes said tightly, “just going inside.”

  “You do that,” the man said. He turned and started down the sidewalk, then stopped and wheeled around. “Hey, there’s a tall blonde in there with a big fuckin’ ass. Tell her Jake said bye.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Sikes agreed.

  “Sure you will. Who gives a shit?” His unsteady arms flew up to measure at least a three-foot spread between his two palms. “Big fuckin’ ass,” he laughed.

  The man then did a wobbly turn and leaned forward, attempting to run down the sidewalk to catch up with his cohort, but instead fell. His chin slammed down hard on the concrete sidewalk. Sikes heard a loud crunch. He fought off the laughter welling up inside his chest and bolted through the door.

  At first he couldn’t see much, just the outline of shifting shapeless bodies in the backdrop of subdued lighting. The owners kept the place dark for several reasons, mostly so the patrons couldn’t get a good look at the girls: their bad complexions, bubbles of cellulite on saddlebag thighs and oversized backsides, and botched breast jobs that most of the girls spent their money on. If they didn’t spend their club takings, or “titty money” as they referred to it, on boob jobs, it went to support the good-for-nothing, low-life boyfriends they left at home while they worked.

  Baby Dolls had been Sikes’s dive of choice for the past two years, mostly on Friday and Saturday nights. But he hadn’t been back since the late-morning altercation a few weeks ago with one of the girls. As his eyes adjusted, he made his way to the bar, sitting on one of the high-back barstools.

  “Budweiser, Marcy.”

  “Coming,” Marcy barked back, but she didn’t look directly at him.

  Sikes detected a hint of nervousness in her voice, a tension that seemed to pass uneasily over her narrowed lips.

  Marcy finally came over with a bottle of Bud. She slapped a square white napkin down on the bar in front of him, then the beer. Sikes slid a ten over the counter in her direction.

  “Where’s Samantha?” Sikes asked, taking the beer in his right hand and peeling the napkin off the bottom of the bottle with his left.

  He rotated on the barstool, checking every nook and cranny of the club. In spite of numerous ceiling fans spinning at maximum speed, there was a thick fog of cigarette smoke. He squinted and saw a topless girl dancing on the front stage, her super-sized breasts keeping beat to the music, but it wasn’t Samantha. At least five table dances were in progress, and several girls sat at the bar opposite him talking and pawing at their customers, but no sign of Samantha.

  “Sam’s off today,” Marcy answered indifferently.

  Sikes quickly whirled his barstool around to face Marcy.

  “What do you mean she’s off today? She always works Friday nights.”

  “Not this Friday. Her grandmother died. She left Wednesday for New York. I think the funeral was today.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Not sure,” Marcy said shrugging her shoulders. “She originally thought a week but said she might stay longer. Don’t really know.”

  Marcy raised her right hand in a formal “farewell” and walked to the opposite side of the bar to attend to thirsty customers lifting their empty glasses.

  Sikes’s temples began to throb slightly, as he sensed the stone wheel beginning to grind away in the center of his head. “Bitch,” he whispered.

  “Hi, what’s your name?”

  The unexpected, high-pitched voice came from behind him. He spun his barstool around and stared into the blue eyes of a tall blonde. A long black satin dress hugged her slim frame, but its spaghetti straps were no match for the double-D’s struggling for freedom.

  “Hi, my name’s Kitten,” she said in a voice that sounded like Jennifer Tilly’s.

  Kitten sat on the barstool next to Sikes, slung one arm over his shoulder, and one of those double-D’s got buried deep between his upper arm and chest.

  “You going to tell me your name?” she purred.

  “David,” he said, like he was answering a difficult question in school.

  “Would you like a dance, David?”

  “No thanks. I’m going to leave soon.”

  Another girl with short red hair approached them and asked Kitten to have a word with her. The two walked to the end of the bar and stood. Sikes watched the two for a few moments, the redhead doing most of the talking, punctuating every word with a hand gesture like she was signing. She seemed upset about something. Then they both stared in his direction.

  Kitten walked back and stood next to her barstool. “I have to go. I’m going on stage soon.”

  Without another word, she turned and walked away. Sikes again glanced down the bar where the redhead still stood stirring a drink. She was staring in his direction, but as soon as she saw him looking her way, she jerked her head to the side.

  97

  THE STEREO WAS off in the car, but the music wailing back at Baby Dolls still pounded hard somewhere
inside Sikes’s head as he nursed his ailing black sedan over the Merritt Island causeway. He thought about Marcy, Samantha, and Kitten, and the girl with short red hair who couldn’t possibly understand who he was or what he had to do. None of them could, for that matter. In fact, all of them were part of the problem, the same problem that had plagued mankind since the beginning, he thought.

  The music inside his head faded to a non-melodic murmur then shifted to a new selection he called up, one he could relate to, one that made so much sense: the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.” The fiendish lyrics raced through his mind as he picked up speed in the Olds, which for the moment at least appeared to be running flawlessly, heading toward Blockbuster …

  Kelly was working up front at one of the cash registers. Sikes spotted her as he walked past the yellow-and-blue, half-circle checkout counter. Her long blond hair was not in a ponytail as it was yesterday. Now it flowed down in straight lines on either side of her beautiful, perfect face; like framing a priceless masterpiece. As far as Sikes was concerned she was a masterpiece, his magnum opus to do with as he pleased.

  He selected two movies and waited his turn in line behind three other people, watching every move Kelly made as she called for the next customer. Sikes took three steps forward. Now he could see that only one of the buttons on her blue pullover sport shirt was fastened, exposing a hint of cleavage. He had visions of what lay below this, launching pulsations of arousal throughout his entire body. Two steps forward. Once he thought she’d glanced in his direction. He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter because he knew that she knew he was there. He could feel it, and this made him even more aroused. The thought of her with him, under the weight of his body was almost too much to hold in his mind. Two more steps forward. He closed his eyes, and in the deepest recesses of his mind, he smelled her skin and tasted the light perfume on her neck. He felt the hardness build between his legs, and his heart thumped faster as he ran his hand over the creamy, smooth skin of her bare stomach and then lower until his fingertips brushed her soft pubic hair.

  “Next please,” a voice shouted.

  Sikes’s eyes opened, and the bright lights overhead sent impulses of laser-sharp pain through his head, fading away his sensuously intoxicating daydream.

  “Next please,” the voice called again.

  It was Kelly calling for him. He walked slowly toward the counter.

  “Hi, Kelly,” Sikes said.

  He watched as Kelly turned her back to him. She appeared to be looking at the same red-headed asshole kid from yesterday. The boy shrugged his shoulders, and she finally turned back around and gave Sikes a cold glare.

  “Find everything okay, sir?” she said in an equally cold voice.

  “The name’s David.” Sikes paused for a second and then said, “Kelly.”

  Then Kelly looked down, just like yesterday. No eye contact.

  “Aren’t you open ’til twelve-thirty?” asked Sikes as he slipped his billfold from the back pocket of his baggy blue jeans. “I might come back for another movie,” he said, throwing a twenty on the counter.

  “Yes,” Kelly muttered quickly, still not looking up.

  Sikes stood motionless, only an inch or two from the counter, and no more than three feet separated him from Kelly. Then he stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans along with his billfold and felt the light switch flick in his head. That simple flip of a switch that lets him know what to do. Everything was different now with Kelly, it had shifted to a different plane, a higher level of understanding. He always knew what had to be done in these situations, because Gabriel was always there to guide him along the way.

  “See you later, Kelly,” he said, taking the movies and his change from her reluctant hand.

  98

  ONLY FIVE MORE blocks and he’d be home. His Nike Airs let out a faint squishing sound each time they hit on the flat concrete sidewalk. He made the turn onto Boca Tigre Drive, his breathing synchronized to the steady stride of his legs as he closed in on the last three blocks. Adam could now see the light-brown shingles that topped the roof of his house through a small clearing in the thick clumps of trees on the south side of his expansive lot. The Saturday morning air was crisp and clean, mixed with an undertone of the fresh, briny breeze coming off the nearby Atlantic. The cold air reddened his cheeks and danced on the tips of his exposed ears.

  His muscular thighs bulged in his black, spandex running pants, as he picked up the pace. Clouds of steamy white air formed directly in front of his face, each quickly disappearing only to be replaced by another one. He was actually feeling stronger the closer he got to his driveway, so he started into a sprint, covering the last hundred yards before walking up the driveway to cool down.

  Inside the Riley home Peter Carillo jerked his body up straight on the couch in the living room, dropping his paperback onto the coffee table without bothering to mark the page he was just reading. The rapid chirps from the security alarm signaled an entry into the house. He ducked out of the room and into the tiled foyer, his hand gripping the holstered pistol on his belt. He watched as Adam stepped through the front door, closing it behind himself.

  “Morning,” Adam said, his eyes locked on Carillo’s hand resting on the pistol.

  Carillo took his hand off the gun. “Good run?”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect running weather,” Adam said, forcing the words out between heaving gasps.

  “Can’t say as I’ve done that for a while, but probably should.”

  “Great way to relieve stress,” Adam said. Then he held up his right hand. “Hold on, I need to reset the alarm. Be right back.”

  The two men were planted at opposite ends of the leather couch in the living room, each with a cup of steaming coffee, talking like fraternity brothers. This was Carillo’s most amazing ability: lightening up tense moments. This was actually very ironic, because in spite of all the months he’d spent in Vietnam, he didn’t come back a hardened, emotionless zombie incapable of caring about another human being, like so many others that came before and after him over there. That’s not to say he hadn’t been fighting his own personal emotional battles for years because of the stresses brought on by war, or “Post-Vietnam Syndrome” as they called it when he was discharged. No, that would be a lie. He would be lying to himself, and Carillo decided many years ago he would have nothing to do with that. He would face up to any and all problems he might encounter after the war, after the killing and watching his buddies die in that godforsaken jungle of a country, after having Ozzie “Big O” Barrett die in his arms.

  There were the nightmares, the night sweats, insomnia, a bleeding stomach ulcer, and migraine headaches, but no flashbacks. None of those horrible brain farts where reality and the past seemed to become one and the same. He was lucky in that. Damn lucky.

  “You all right?” Carillo asked.

  “I’m okay,” Adam said then sipped his coffee.

  “How’s your wife and daughter taking this?”

  “My wife and I haven’t been talking much lately.”

  “Hmm.” Carillo figured it was best not to ask any more questions along those lines. “How about your daughter?”

  “An emotional wreck. She’s afraid to go to work, apprehensive to even leave the house.” Adam rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I don’t know.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything.” Adam sat up straight on the couch. “All of this is like a nightmare, and I can’t seem to wake up.”

  “Look, this guy’s going to make a mistake, and we’ll nail him.”

  “Then what, he’ll be let off again on another technicality?”

  “I can’t control what the courts, the lawyers, and state attorneys do, but I can do something from the law enforcement end of it. If this twisted asshole wants to play games, we’ll beat him at his own game.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “But you know something?”

  “What?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t think he’s going to call here again.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “A gut feeling.” Carillo faced Adam. “This guy’s a sick bastard, but not stupid. In fact, quite the opposite. He’s not going to risk getting caught making a phone call here.”

  “Then what’s he going to do?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe go after—”

  “Who?” Adam interrupted.

  “I don’t know, maybe somebody else.”

  99

  ADAM SLOWLY WHEELED his Volvo into the gun shop parking lot, where it stood out among the pre-Clinton vintage sedans and mud-splattered pickup trucks. Inside the shop, Arno scribbled Adam’s name on the waiting list for the firing range; there were five people ahead of him. He perused the handguns in the dingy glass case, thinking back to the conversation he’d had with Peter Carillo earlier that day. His mind was racing. It shifted to thoughts of Sikes out of jail, unpunished and a free man. These thoughts triggered a single, solitary word that was becoming increasingly intense. Revenge.

  “Looks like we’re backed up this afternoon.”

  Adam spun around. “Damn, Bill! You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

  “I didn’t sneak up on you, sonny.”

  “Sorry, I’m a little tensed up today.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve just got a lot of things on my mind.”

  Bill pointed to the corner of the gun shop. “Let’s go sit in Arno’s flea-ridden, fake-leather chairs over there.”

  Adam followed Bill to the corner of the shop and for the first time noticed he had a slight limp in his right leg.