1 Breakfast at Madeline's

by Matt Witten

  "Life's a bitch, bro," I told him. "Insanity rules."

  "Insanity always rules," Rob agreed.

  I wiped some sleep out of my eyes. Maybe if I talked to someone, it would straighten out my fuzzball brain. "I found out what happened," I said in a low voice.

  Rob frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

  "I know who killed Donald Penn."

  Rob stared at me, stunned, and said, "You're kidding."

  I shook my head solemnly. "No."

  I got a big kick out of Rob's reaction to my success. He was totally blown away, but tried to act Hollywood cool about it. "Man, I don't know what to say. So what are you gonna do?"

  Aye, there's the rub. "I'll tell the police. See if they believe me."

  Rob nodded thoughtfully. "You have enough evidence?"

  Well, by God, that high-heel shoe and that mottled brick ought to be enough to at least get the cops started. And hey, if Molly saved the threatening typewritten note that flew through her window with the brick, maybe they'd be able to identify Bonnie's typewriter. Come to think of it, I'd noticed an old IBM Selectric in the Shoeshine and a Smile office.

  "I think I do have enough," I said slowly. "I think I can pull this off."

  Rob gave a little laugh and shook his head. I got the feeling he didn't really believe me, which pissed me off, but I couldn't say I blamed him. "You're quite a guy, Jacob," Rob said as he stood up. "Let me get you that Ethiopian—on the house."

  "And I want milk!" Gretzky squealed from over by the bookcase. Rob nodded and headed for the front room as the kid jumped in my lap with a Curious George book and asked me to read to him. Next to hockey, monkeys are his biggest passion. My eyes weren't quite focusing yet, but reading aloud would require less energy than playing hockey, so I began. " 'Curious George Takes a Job,'" I read. " ‘This is George. He lived in the zoo.'"

  I was already at the part where Curious George is hiding underneath the elephant's ear when Rob came in with the coffee and milk and put them on the table. I thanked him and kept reading. No doubt Rob was dying to hear my theory about The Penn's death, but I was still irrationally pissed off at him for not believing me, so I decided to make him wait until I finished the book. As I turned the page, I picked up my cup and started to drink, but Gretzky shouted, "I want some!"

  "Okay," I said. Yeah, I know three year olds are too young to drink coffee, but he loves a little bit of the stuff in his milk, and I hate to refuse him.

  So I poured some coffee into the Great One's milk. I noticed Rob staring at me, and felt guilty. "I know, I know, I'm raising a coffee addict," I said.

  "Yay! Coffee milk!" Gretzky shouted. He put it to his lips, about to guzzle it all down in one gulp, and I turned back to Curious George.

  But something wasn't right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something just wasn't right. I looked back up at Rob.

  He was staring at Gretzky. Staring at him, frozen with shock and horror.

  What the hell was that all about? Why did Rob feel so strongly about caffeine for three year olds?

  And then it hit me.

  Oh, no. Oh Lord, no.

  No, it can't be.

  The coffee milk was already starting to pour down my son's vulnerable throat.

  My arm leapt out. It slammed Gretzky's glass away from his mouth.

  The glass crashed to the floor and broke, spewing coffee milk all over the place. I desperately hoped that most of the coffee milk was on the floor now—and not inside of Gretzky.

  Because that coffee was poisoned.

  Rob had killed Penn, and he thought I knew it, so he poisoned my coffee.

  I looked at Rob. Rob looked at me. Gretzky started crying.

  Then Rob drew a small gun from his pants pocket. My kid stopped crying and stared at it. So did I.

  Nothing happened for a moment. Then Rob said, "Hey, Gretzky, you want to go play with the barrel of monkeys? They're in the front room, right by the window."

  "Is that a real gun?" Gretzky asked.

  "No," Rob said, but gave me a look to make sure I knew he was lying.

  "Daddy, why'd you spill my coffee milk?" Gretzky turned to me angrily.

  "Sorry, honey, it was the wrong kind of coffee." Rob impatiently waved his gun, a silent message that I better get Gretzky out of there fast. "Hey, why don't you go play with those monkeys in the other room?"

  "But you're reading me a book!"

  I checked Rob's face. His eyes had narrowed into unreadable slits, and for all I knew he was about to blast us both. I pleaded with my boy. "Honey—"

  "No!"

  I glanced at Rob again, and this time I had no trouble reading his eyes. Or his gun, which was pointed at me, steady.

  "Sweetheart," I said, panicky, "how about if you get the monkeys to play hockey with each other?"

  Gretzky's face instantly turned sunny. Monkeys and hockey—what a combination. "Okay," he said, and raced to the other room.

  I would have heaved a huge sigh of relief if I didn't have a gun barrel in my face. "Now drink your coffee," Rob told me. His voice was ice cold.

  "You'll never get away with this," I replied, my voice several octaves higher. I sound like a bad Hollywood movie, I thought to myself, like an actor in someone else's dream.

  Rob quickly jolted me back to reality. "Thanks for the tip. Now drink the fucking coffee or I'll shoot you."

  "Some choice."

  "I'll shoot your boy, too."

  "For Christ's sake, Rob, I didn't even know it was you. I thought it was Bonnie."

  Rob eyed me in bewilderment, then started laughing. "You're shitting me."

  I laughed, too. Who knows, maybe if we shared a little chuckle together, Rob would lighten up. "Hell no, I had Bonnie down cold. I knew she did that second burglary, and she was making death threats against this girl named Molly Otis, so I figured she killed Penn."

  Rob abruptly stopped laughing and glowered at me. "So why didn't you just tell me? Why'd you have to be so fucking elliptical?"

  Elliptical. No one who uses words like "elliptical" would ever actually shoot someone, would they? "Rob, put the gun down already. I can't do anything to you. I don't have any evidence."

  Rob gave a you-can't-fool-me look. "Sure, you do. Gretzky drank some of that shit. They'll find it in his blood."

  My heart thudded. "You mean, he already drank enough to kill him?!"

  Thank God, Rob shook his head no. "But he drank enough so that if I let you go, and you get his blood tested, they'll find it. And they'll find the same stuff in Penn."

  This was incredibly aggravating. "Damn it, Rob, why'd you have to tell me that? I never would've thought to get his blood tested if you hadn't suggested it."

  Rob laughed harshly, then once again stopped abruptly. "Well, let's not cry over spilt milk. Drink up, asshole. And don't try waiting for the cavalry to rescue you. I locked the front door and Madeline doesn't get here 'til eight."

  Where was Marcie when I really needed her? If I had known I would die so soon, maybe I'd have had sex with her after all. I grimaced at my coffee and asked, "What's in this anyway?"

  "An O.D. of pure metherolamphethamine."

  Keep him talking. "What the hell is that?"

  "Designer speed. Souvenir from L.A. Very popular among screenwriters." Rob's face twisted into a grin, and his eyes gleamed. "I used it to help me write. And when they autopsy you, they'll figure that's why you were using it—to break through that writer's block of yours. Same with Penn, if those idiots ever get around to doing an autopsy on him. Your deaths will be attributed to overly pure street drugs. Happens all the time. Smooth, huh?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Don't worry, it'll be painless, just like it was for Penn. No sweat."

  "I still don't get it. Why did you kill him?"

  "Because he wanted my computer."

  "That's a capital offense?"

  Rob stepped close to me, and before I knew what was coming he swiped at me with his gun. It crashed into my right
ear, and all sorts of police sirens exploded inside me. If only those sirens were real—but they weren't. "Now drink, motherfucker, or your son will regret it." He aimed his gun toward the other room to emphasize his threat.

  Gritting my teeth against the pain, I lifted my poisoned cup like I was about to drink it. I needed to think up some good dialogue for myself, and fast. Heck, I'd written enough screenplays, I ought to be able to hit on something. But the best I could do was, "Okay, Rob, I'll drink your little concoction, but before I die, I'd like to know why."

  Rob looked exasperated, but answered me. "Fucking Penn got turned down for some fucking grant to buy a computer, and then he heard I was trying to sell mine. So he came in here early one morning when I was all alone, and told me I'd better give him my computer for free or else he'd tell Madeline about me having sex with Marcie. I said no, and he gave me three days to change my mind." Rob snorted angrily. "Fuck that, I knew the sonufabitch's reputation. If I said yes, he'd be sucking me dry for the rest of my life. And I'd be standing at the counter there, watching him do it."

  "Why didn't you just tell Madeline? Maybe she'd forgive you."

  "Yeah, right. Madeline is, like, 1800s. Jane Austen and shit."

  I darted a furtive glance at the clock on the wall. Damn, 7:15 still. I'd have to hope Madeline came in early—like, way early. "But even if she broke up with you, so what? There's other women. You had your whole life ahead of you."

  If I was trying to provoke him even more—which I wasn't—I succeeded. His nostrils flared, his eyes flashed, and his voice turned shrill. "You don't get it, dickhead. If Madeline breaks up with me, my life is over!"

  "But—"

  He slammed me again with the gun, and my head whirled; I was seeing Rob in triplicate now. But it didn't blur the viciousness in his face, which was so close to mine I could smell his coffee breath.

  His eyes—all six of them—held mine as he snarled furiously, "I spend five years in Hollywood trying to break in, working as a goddamn waiter even though I'm a million times smarter than any of those airheads. So I give up and come back here, and the best job I can find is minimum wage at some lousy coffee shop." He was so out of control with rage, he was spraying spit all over my face as he talked. "If I don't marry Madeline, I'll be doing this kind of pissant job 'til the day I fucking die."

  I snuck another quick glance at the clock: 7:16. Time crawls when you're not having fun. I hoped all the noise Rob was making wouldn't bring Gretzky back in from the other room. "But you could still go to grad school or law school—"

  He barked out a sharp angry laugh. "Bullshit, I could never pay back the loans, even if I could get 'em in the first place. There's too many damn lawyers already. And what would I do with a Ph.D.—wipe my ass with it?" He bared his teeth at me. "See, what you jerkoff baby boomers don't get, the Land of Opportunity is deader than disco music. Welcome to the Land of Fucked Up Service Jobs. A rich bitch like Madeline is my only way out!"

  7:17. Shit. "Hey, I understand it's hard—"

  "Yeah, and I understand you checking that clock, but you better check this for a change." He waved the gun in front of my eyes, then pressed the barrel to my forehead.

  If ever there was a good time to shit in my pants, this was it. Jesus, what a way to die. Shot in the face by a demented Generation Xer.

  My eyes crossed as I watched Rob's finger on the trigger, and his face right behind it. His lips moved. "If I have to shoot you, I will. But I won't shoot Gretzky." I was baffled—was Rob trying to be nice to me?—but he quickly corrected that impression by sneering at me and whispering, "Your son will spend his whole life remembering how his daddy got shot while he was in the next room, playing with monkeys."

  I stared at Rob in terror. This was almost the exact same thing that happened to Donald Penn. Would Gretzky end up as lonely and miserable as Penn was? My brain went numb, except for some grief-stricken corner that kept thinking two names, over and over: Penn... Gretzky... Penn... Gretzky...

  I don't remember lifting the cup. And I don't remember it reaching my mouth. But I felt myself starting to drink. I felt the bitter coffee trickling between my lips—

  "Daddy, Daddy, I made peepee again!" Gretzky shouted, racing in.

  Rob, startled, waved his gun away from my forehead for a moment.

  The same moment I flung my cup of coffee at his eyes.

  He jerked his gun arm toward his eyes, then saw what he was doing and jerked it away. But in the middle of all that jerking, I slammed his arm. The gun fell away from his hand.

  Unfortunately it fell closer to Rob than to me. Trying to gain time, I shoved the table in his gut. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and went sprawling. But before I could leap around the table and get the gun, he managed to crawl across the floor and reach out his hand.

  Out of nowhere, Gretzky swooped down and got to the gun first. He picked it up. "Here," he said, and started to hand it to Rob.

  Why'd the kid have to be so goddamn polite all of a sudden? "No! Don't give him the gun!" I screamed. Gretzky stared at me in confusion, but when Rob grabbed for the gun, he pulled it away just in the nick of time. Pleased with himself, he burst into a huge grin. Then Rob got to his feet, and Gretzky backed up. "Throw it here!" I shouted.

  Giggling, Gretzky put his little arm back, getting ready to throw.

  Rob put his arms up to block it, getting ready to lunge straight at him.

  Then Gretzky feinted a throw. Rob dove to his right.

  Gretzky feinted another throw. Rob dove to his left.

  "Monkey in the Middle!" Gretzky called out joyfully.

  If he didn't throw that frigging thing soon, I'd have a heart attack.

  The problem was, Gretzky was into hockey, not baseball. If only that were Babe Ruth throwing the gun, he'd have lobbed it right over Rob's head, no problem. Fathers, here's yet another reason to play catch with your kids.

  "Gretzky, throw it already! Throw it high!" I yelled.

  Rob couldn't take the waiting anymore either, and lunged forward right as Gretzky finally threw the gun.

  Just as I feared, it went low, hitting Rob's knee and then bouncing at his feet. But Gretzky's feinting had made Rob overeager; he couldn't stop his lunge, and it carried him away from the gun. Meanwhile I was lunging too, and it carried me toward the gun.

  But not close enough. When I landed on the floor and reached out my arm, the gun was still a foot away and Rob was coming back for it.

  Desperately, I slithered forward while Rob scrambled back. His hand stretched out, and so did mine. My fingers grabbed half of the gun just as his fingers grabbed the other half. We both tugged frantically—but he had the handle and I had the barrel, so he had a better grip. I felt it slipping out of my hand.

  "Go, Daddy, go!" Gretzky cheered, laughing. His voice must have given me an extra surge of strength, because that's when I gave one more desperate yank and the gun came out of Rob's hand. I quickly aimed it at his face. He stared at me in shock as I stood up slowly, keeping the gun pointed.

  "Yay, we won!" Gretzky shouted.

  Rob jumped up. "Easy," I said, praying that there wasn't any particular trick to shooting a gun. It seemed like it would be easy, but I'd never done it before. Then all at once Rob ran toward me.

  I started to squeeze the trigger.

  At the last moment he swerved and ran past me into the front room.

  I dashed in there after him. I couldn't let him get hold of a knife or some other kind of weapon. If he tried to, I'd kill him.

  Meanwhile Gretzky dashed after me, singing, "We Are the Champions."

  Rob was behind the counter, but when he saw me he ducked down out of sight. Shit, now what? I pointed the gun at the spot where I'd last seen his head. But by now he could be anywhere behind there. Gretzky's singing covered any noise Rob might be making. I shifted my aim to the end of the counter, in case he leaped around it with a weapon. I waited, my hand shaking, my finger quivering on the trigger.

  Suddenly Rob
stood up again in the same spot where he'd ducked down a moment before. I frantically swiveled the gun back at his face. But he didn't seem to be paying me any attention. He was focused on something in his hands.

  A small plastic vial. Half filled with some kind of white powder.

  Gretzky saw it, too. "Is that candy? Can I have some?" he asked.

  But it wasn't candy. It was the poison. Rob opened the vial and raised it to his lips...

  Good, I thought, go ahead and die. He tilted his head back, about to pour the poison down his throat.

  Then, for no reason, a phrase from The Penn's preface somehow shot into my head: "Every man has his clister, his 151 proof, his dreams."

  I still don't quite get it. Why did I suddenly remember those words right then? And why did remembering them give me a wave of compassion for the murderously unhappy young man with broken dreams standing there in front of me?

  But that's what happened. It's strange when I think about it, but The Penn's preface, which he labored on for so many pathetic and seemingly pointless years, turned out in the end to have a powerful impact.

  That preface saved a man's life.

  Because with The Penn's words ringing in my brain, I reached over the counter and wrenched the poison-filled vial away from Rob. He watched in horror while I put the vial safely away in my pocket.

  I thought he'd jump out at me from behind the counter and do his best to tear the shit out of me, gun or no gun. Once again I got ready to shoot. But Rob surprised me. He put his head down on the counter. Then he started to weep.

  Gretzky was impatient at this latest turn of events. "Can we play hockey now?" he asked me.

  I nodded slowly. "Let me just make one phone call first."

  This time I remembered the last name. Mackerel.

  28

  The morning sun shone brightly through the window as I carried my java and Daily Saratogian to the front table of the coffee shop. Not Madeline's, Uncommon Grounds. I'd been steering clear of Madeline's for the past week, ever since Rob got arrested there.